


I've Been a Fool for Lesser Things

by sadtrash



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Amputee Bucky Barnes, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes's Backpack, Bucky Barnes's Notebooks, Gay Bucky Barnes, Hydra (Marvel), M/M, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Wakanda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-04
Updated: 2017-05-16
Packaged: 2018-10-13 20:24:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 50,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10521180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadtrash/pseuds/sadtrash
Summary: After Steve brings Bucky home from Wakanda, he feels things couldn't be better. He has his family back. But Bucky's keeping something from him, and it's only after he finds out what's in his backpack does he fit the pieces together.Or, Steve and Bucky's journey to discover what home really is after the events of Civil War.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! This fic has been in the making for awhile now, but between school and my amazing procrastination skills I haven't gotten it finished until recently. It is completely finished, and I'll be updating every other day or so, depending on my schedule since I still have to edit, but I should be able to crank it out fairly quick. There's also a high chance I'll add things to the tags as well during my editing/posting process.
> 
> Warnings for the first chapter include mentions of depression and ptsd.

When Bucky had fallen from the train in the Alps, Steve had lost hope. And then Steve had fallen too, just...differently. He woke up, 68 years into the future. Without Bucky.

 

Except, Bucky _was_ there. Just not _his_ Bucky. This Bucky didn’t remember him. This Bucky was a killer without a conscious.

 

The incident at the Potomac had haunted him. Bucky had saved him from the wreckage and left. Maybe there was some hope again.

 

Bucky remembered him. When Steve had found his apartment in Bucharest, he ached. Bucky had built a life by himself without him, but he remembered Steve. He was there with him and they joked about stupid things like they used to. It was familiar and Steve hurt with it.

 

After Zemo, Bucky didn't feel safe, so Steve let him make his own decision to go back into cryo. His heart screamed that it wasn’t right. It felt wrong and awful to watch Bucky leave him again. He breathed through it. Bucky was safe. He wasn’t dead and he was safe in Wakanda. He repeated this in his head like a mantra.

 

But after everything that’s happened, Steve’s now forced to go back to his unused and empty apartment in Brooklyn.

 

Steve unlocks his apartment door for the first time in awhile, and is met with stiflingly silence. The living room is dark, and when he flips on the light switch, it becomes more disconsolate.

 

There’s nothing except his furniture, which is immaculately clean, discluding the light layer of dust settled on the cushions and fabric cover. He sighs and sets his keys on the small table by the door, shuffles down the hall and to his bedroom, trying to ignore the sore ache in his thigh and the slight limp that tags along with it.

 

His bedroom is just as still as the rest of the apartment; dust on the fixed sheets and dresser, blinds tightly drawn. He doesn’t care about the cloud of dust that rises when he flops face first onto the blanket, fully clothed.

 

He sleeps until 11:00 the next morning, which is surprisingly late for him. He looks blankly at the clock, which glares back at him an angry red. He turns his head away from the source of light, but doesn’t fall back asleep. He stares at the wall, blinking sluggishly.

 

He needs a day or two.

 

But it takes more than a couple days.

 

When he finally finds the energy to get out of bed, he doesn’t have the energy to do much else.

 

The Accords thing weighs him down more than he thought it would. Or maybe it’s just because Bucky’s gone again, on his own will. Or maybe it’s the guilt of the Tony/Howard thing. Maybe it’s all three.

 

It’s definitely all three.

 

Over the next few days, Steve finds himself not caring about stupid, little things. He surprises himself when he looks at something—usually the dishes—and discovers a blank feeling deep in his chest. He tells himself he’ll get to it later, but later is an extremely broad term that he likes to play with the boundaries of.

 

He gets through eight days by himself—slowly declining—before Sam stops by, worried by Steve’s quiet behavior.

 

He’s been through the process before, after he woke up from the ice,—that was a worse time—after Bucky left him on the bank of the Potomac, and now the aftermath of Bucky going back into cryo. The aftermath of Bucky being gone. Again.

 

He doesn’t leave his room, doesn’t eat as much as a super soldier should, doesn’t shower. He just can’t find the energy to get up and do everyday things.

 

He tells himself, _what’s the point,_ almost daily, whenever he should be getting out of bed, jogging, eating, taking care of himself.

 

So he doesn’t change his clothes, doesn’t eat, doesn’t shower, doesn’t care. Every day the same thing. Sometimes he’ll drag himself out of bed, and other times he won’t. Maybe he’ll sleep the day away, or shuffle around the apartment poking at things or staring blankly at the TV.

 

It’s a rough eight days.

 

He’s forcing himself to eat a small granola bar when there’s a knock on his door. He keeps eating, considers not getting up and off the bar stool to open the door, but the knocking happens again, more incessant this time.

 

“It’s Sam! Open up!”

 

Steve sets his granola bar down and trudges to the door, slowly unlocking it.

 

“Woah,” Sam says when he sees him. His eyes rove over Steve’s mussed, trashed form.

 

Steve’s been wearing his long-sleeved shirt and pajama pants for three days, and his hair is probably a greasy mess on top of his head.

 

“You okay, Steve?” he asks, shouldering his way in. He’s got a plastic bag swinging from his hand. “You haven’t been answering my calls.”

 

“Oh,” Steve says dumbly. “Um, I guess I haven’t really charged my phone.” And it’s true, he hasn’t been on his phone in awhile, and it probably died a long time ago.

 

“That’s okay,” Sam assures him, setting the bag on Steve’s kitchen counter. “Just wanted to make sure you were all right, which…” he stops himself, swallowing a little and blatantly not looking at Steve. Steve doesn’t mind all that much. “Nevermind,” he dismisses quickly.

 

Steve blinks, and there's something low in his chest that feels a small bit ashamed.

 

“Thought maybe you’d want some company after being alone for a week. I brought some food, and the game’s on…” he trails off, watching Steve hopefully. Worriedly.

 

Steve nods. “Sure, Sam,” he agrees.

 

“Excellent. I brought you food, because I know you well enough by now to know that you haven’t been shopping.”

 

Steve finds the energy in him to smile at Sam. Something small and weak and definitely forced. “Thanks.”

 

Sam nods, satisfied. “Now why don’t you go take a well needed shower while I get set up.”

 

Steve knows Sam’s not gonna let him slip by this time, so he does as he’s told and heads into the bathroom; forces himself to take a shower and put some effort into taking care of himself for Sam.

 

But eventually, after the game is over and they've caught up as much as possible, Sam leaves, has to, and Steve goes back to his normal habits of doing nothing.

 

With Bucky gone and out of Steve’s life again, Steve’s got nothing _to_ do. He never once leaves his apartment in the weeks that follow, and his food supply declines at a slow rate before becoming scarce. Steve himself loses muscle mass and body fat, but can’t find it in him to care enough about the hints of gnawing hunger deep in his gut. He doesn’t want to go grocery shopping, the fear and dread of seeing people out in public and people seeing him is just too overwhelming to deal with. Much worse than making sure he has enough food to survive.

 

But Sam—an actual saint and Steve Rogers Guardian—stops by with groceries and forces him to eat and shower and actually take care of himself just about every other day.

 

Steve doesn’t know where Sam’s staying, doesn’t know why he’s not back in DC working at the VA and returning to his normal life. Doesn’t know why he’s practically dedicating himself to Steve, because Steve knows he’s in that special and fragile state at the moment that controls his brain and makes him act like an incompetent child—unable to do normal things to keep himself alive.

 

Steve doesn’t know these things, but he can’t bring himself to ask, so he just lets Sam baby him and make sure he eats enough so that he doesn’t starve.

 

So Steve’s not doing too well, he’s aware, but he also can’t find it in him to care enough. He doesn’t know what’s wrong, all he knows is that he’s tired all the time, but can’t sleep. That he doesn’t have enough energy to stand up or even move. That he can’t get out of bed sometimes to eat or bathe. That there’s something wrong.

 

So he tells Sam one day when he comes over. They’re watching some show that Steve really isn’t paying attention to. There’s no build up when he brings it up, just speak and go. “I think there’s something wrong with me,” he blurts, moving his blank stare from the television to Sam.

 

Sam turns to look, quickly muting the TV. “What?” he asks, shifting so he’s facing Steve on the other end of the couch.

 

“There’s something wrong with me,” he repeats, more sure of himself, even though he’s just repeating his previous words.

 

“Uh, okay. Why do you think that?”

 

Steve shrugs, trying to put into words the long, long list of problems that are Steve Rogers. “I’m not supposed to be tired. Not all the time, at least. But I am. I’m _exhausted._ I don’t even do anything. It’s not normal.”

 

Sam sighs. “I know, Steve.”

 

Steve stares. Sam knows? Steve even tries to act semi-normal when he’s got company. How could Sam possibly figure it out?

 

“I see it in your eyes whenever I come over. They’re dull. I’m trying to help you the best I can, but depression is a bitch, and it weighs you down like an anchor.” Sam shakes his head.

 

“Depression?” Steve echoes, mulling the word over in his head. “You think I’ve got depression?”

 

“Yeah,” Sam tells him. “Or PTSD. The symptoms can be similar, and they can be linked to each other.”

 

“Oh,” Steve says, thinking over the aspect. “What should I do?”

 

“First, be proud of yourself for asking for help. Not everyone does that. A lot of people don’t, actually. It’s a huge step in the right direction. Second, you can always talk to me. I know it’s hard, but it’ll help, trust me. And if it’s really that bad, go to a doctor. They’ll prescribe you medicine that’ll make your life ten times easier,” Sam explains.

 

Steve nods, taking in the dump of information.. “Thank you, Sam.” And he means it.

 

Sam smiles at him, like he’s the fucking sun.

 

Sam is pretty much always is there for him.

 

Steve gets back into the habit of charging his phone, which he counts as a small accomplishment of doing something normal. And Sam starts texting and calling more instead of coming to his apartment in person. Steve doesn’t mind. At least Sam’s still talking to him.

 

“Hey, man,” Sam says one day, perched on Steve’s couch in an open, relaxed position. “I think I’m gonna move back to DC. I’m starting to miss the VA.”

 

“Oh,” Steve replies, a little taken aback. He knows, of course, this was bound to eventually happen, but without Sam here he really is all alone. “That’s a good idea,” he says instead. “They’ll be glad to have you back.”

 

Sam shrugs. “It’s home, you know?”

 

Steve isn’t so sure what home is anymore.

 

After Sam leaves Brooklyn, Steve’s just as lost as when he came out of the ice. He continues to stay in bed day after day, occasionally dragging himself around to perform everyday tasks.

 

Sam still texts and calls, making sure Steve is all right—he isn’t—and telling him stories about his life and the VA in hopes it’ll give Steve something to think about or listen to.

 

Steve enjoys Sam’s stories, but it makes him wish he could tell him stories of his own, but his life is completely and utterly bland. Like a blank sheet of paper.

 

Steve just doesn’t have any pencils to draw with.

 

One morning, Steve blinks his eyes open, feels the deep exhaustion straight through his bones, and doesn’t move for the rest of the day. It’s pretty pathetic, he thinks, unable to do anything but breathe and blink. His phone buzzes once or twice, probably just Sam. But he ignores it. Stares at the smooth, blank wall.

 

He doesn’t think he could move, even if he tried. He just _doesn’t have it in him._

 

He’ll try again tomorrow. Maybe.

 

But tomorrow it’s the same. It’s exactly the same replica as the day before except now the hunger in his stomach is a little more prominent and the buzzing of his phone becomes more persistent.

 

It’ll die eventually, though, so Steve leaves it and closes his eyes.

 

He has trouble keeping track of time ever since Sam went back to DC. The hours and days pass like drizzling honey. He doesn’t bother checking the clocks, doesn’t really care.

 

He doesn’t know what time it is when there’s frantic knocking at his door.

 

He blinks and lets it happen. The knocking continues until he can faintly hear Sam’s voice through the two layers of doors.

 

“Steve, open the door!” he shouts. And it might just be Steve, but Sam sounds worried. Angry, maybe. “Steve! I know you’re in there!”

 

Steve blinks a few more times before mustering enough energy to slide his legs to the side of his bed.

 

He stumbles to the living room, trying to gain control of his knees so they won’t buckle from under him.

 

He slides one of the locks open before flicking the other one. Opens it to find Sam scowling. It quickly dissipates into something Steve detects as pity.

 

Steve knows he doesn’t look terrific, but he didn’t realize he looked that bad to put that specific look on Sam’s face.

 

“Dude…” Sam breathes out.

 

Steve frowns and shuffles to the side to let Sam in. “I thought you were in DC,” he mutters.

 

“Yeah well I had to come back,” he says shortly.

 

Steve shakes his head. “You don’t have to come all the way to Brooklyn just to make sure I’m okay,” he tells him.

 

Sam glares at him. “Obviously I do,” he shoots back. “And I came because you weren’t answering your damn phone. And it’s actually important this time, Steve!”

 

Steve blinks at him. “Sorry,” he says, but it sounds apathetic even to his own ears.

 

“Steve,” Sam tries again. His voice has taken a more serious tone. “T’Challa’s been trying to call you. It’s about Bucky.”

 

Steve has a brief flash of disbelief. “What?” he says meekly, the concern in his chest that’s building rapidly is the most he’s ever felt since he came back.

 

“He–he’s outta cryo. T’Challa’s been trying to call you so he could send a jet, but you weren’t answering. He called me yesterday.”

 

His phone must’ve died awhile ago. He definitely doesn’t remember his phone going off. Didn’t his phone go off this morning? Was that this morning? He can’t remember.

 

“Bucky?” he repeats, weak. “Bucky’s out of cryo?”

 

“Yeah, man,” Sam says sympathetically.

 

“Oh.” Steve says, before he’s on his on his knees. His knees hit the wooden floor hard, but he doesn’t register the shock of pain in his knees very well.

 

Sam makes some sort of shocked noise, trying unsuccessfully to catch Steve before he hits the wood. He settles for wrapping him in a hug once they’re both on the ground.

 

Steve sobs, clinging onto Sam as tears run down his face. “He’s okay?” he chokes out.

 

Sam nods. “Yeah,” he whispers, rubbing Steve’s shoulder.

 

Steve jerks with a sob, and he feels light. Feels better than he’s felt in weeks. It’s a weird sensation.

 

They stay on the floor until Steve’s run out of energy to cry, and even then he just leans limply against Sam in his arms.

 

* * *

 

T’Challa sends one of his jets to pick Steve up. Sam insists on heading back to DC, so Steve travels to Wakanda alone. When they make it to the lab Bucky’s staying in, one of T’Challa’s staff leads him to an empty waiting room filled with couches and armchairs instead of hard, plastic doctor chairs. It makes him feel just that much better.

 

He waits anxiously for someone to come and get him, sitting on one side of a soft brown couch. He waits for who knows how long. To Steve, it seems like hours. His leg bounces insistently as his impatience grows.

 

He probably doesn’t look great. He’s been running his hands through his hair all morning, and he had thrown on his clothes without thinking.

 

He’s nervously picking at his nails when one of T’Challa’s nurses comes to fetch him. She doesn’t speak English, so she just taps him on the shoulder and motions him inside.

 

Steve lets out the breath he’d been holding since he got there and stands up to follow her.

 

The lab is white and pristine, and he immediately spots Bucky on one of the exam tables. He’s hunched over and pulled in on himself, his only hand gripping the edge of the table. When he looks up at one of the nurses in front of him, Steve can see the dark purple bags under his eyes.

 

T’Challa comes forward, placing a gentle hand on Steve’s shoulder to turn him and lead him away from Bucky, which is the last thing he wants to do.

 

“Captain Rogers,” T’Challa starts, and the tone of his voice has Steve scared. It’s gentle and commiserating, like a parent about to tell their kid the family dog got run over.

 

“What’s wrong with him?” Steve demands. Even he didn’t look this bad when he came out of the ice. He might’ve a few weeks after, but no one needs to know that.

 

T’Challa sighs. “In order to rid him of the activation code, we were forced to do something a bit extreme.”

 

Steve feels anger bubbling up inside him.  " _What?_ " he grounds out.

 

T’Challa holds his hands out in a non-threatening gesture. "Please,” he says, “hear me out.”

 

Steve keeps quiet, afraid of whatever will come out of his mouth next won’t be too pretty.

 

“We explained what we would have to do to him to erase the triggers, and he agreed. We had verbal consent before we went through with it,” he explains.

 

“What did you do to him?” Steve orders, getting increasingly more impatient the more T’Challa speaks.

 

T’Challa closes his eyes before looking at Steve. “It’s something called electroshock therapy.”

 

Steve is over this. “ _Shock therapy?_ You _electrocuted_ him?” he yells, beyond angry.

 

“He agreed, Captain,” T’Challa tries. “And it’s much more thorough than just mindlessly shocking the words out of him.”

 

“Is it?” Steve demands, hands clenched into fists at his side.

 

“We woke him yesterday. I didn’t think informing you was best until we were positive Sergeant Barnes was cured,” he tells Steve.

 

Steve nods, jaw clenched. “Can I see him now?” He just wants to make sure Bucky’s all right.

 

“Of course,” T’Challa says, motioning with a hand to where Bucky is.

 

Steve lets out a strained breath, trying to keep himself under control. Bucky’s safe, that’s all that matters.

 

Bucky looks up when he hears Steve coming towards him. He offers a weak smile.

 

Up close, Bucky looks even worse. The bags under his eyes are grotesquely dark and large, and his posture screams exhaustion, swaying slightly to the right. He blinks up at Steve, and Steve breaks. He gathers Bucky up in his arms, and he’s so _real_ and _solid._ Steve lets out a dry sob from where his chin is resting on Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky reaches up and wraps his arm around Steve’s back, reciprocating the hug. Steve feels fingers curl weakly into the fabric of his shirt.

 

“Bucky,” Steve murmurs, right in his ear.

 

When he pulls back, Bucky’s still smiling. “Miss me?” he asks cheekily.

 

Steve huffs, forcing himself not to cry. Of course he missed Bucky. “Not even, but my apartment’s just too quiet without you there.” He smiles back, memorizing Bucky’s face as he’s allowed to stare.

 

Bucky’s still wearing the sweatpants and wife beater he went under in, and Steve can’t wait to get him in some better clothes.

 

Bucky frowns the more he looks at Steve. “What’s the matter with you?” he asks. “You look sick. Thought you couldn’t get sick anymore.”

 

Steve swallows thickly. “I, uh–” He laughs, suddenly, cutting himself off. “You should be the one to talk. Can’t believe you let them electrocute you,” he huffs, shaking his head.

 

“It’s much more medical than you make it sound,” Bucky admonishes, completely forgetting about the focus on Steve. “But hey, I’m all good now. I’m a free man, right?”

 

Steve nods, chuckling. “Yeah, Buck.”

 

Bucky makes it sound like no big deal, being a free man, but it means so much more to both of them than they’ll admit.

 

“Did it–did it hurt?” he asks cautiously, and when Bucky looks down instead of replying, he already knows the answer. “Oh.” And then he’s got Bucky in his arms again, gripping tight like he’ll fall right through the cracks and away from Steve again.

 

“Sorry,” Bucky whispers. “I’m okay now.” He glances up at Steve once he lets go. “I’m okay,” he murmurs.

 

Steve nods, breathing deeply. They’ll both be okay. “You ready?” he checks, thumbing over the black plastic covering exposed wires on Bucky’s shoulder.

 

Bucky looks to where Steve’s hand is. “Can’t feel it,” he tells him simply. “Just a useless metal stump now.”

 

“That’s okay,” Steve assures him, sliding his hand up to give Bucky’s actual shoulder a friendly squeeze. “T’Challa’s got a plane ready for us. And I’ve got a spare bedroom.” He shrugs.

 

“Yeah? It’ll be just like old times, won’t it?” Bucky grins, and Steve wants to wipe all of those concerned wrinkles away with his thumb.

 

Steve nods. “Yeah, pal.” He smiles, a little sadly.

 

* * *

 

“This place is an absolute hole, Stevie,” Bucky states as he looks at Steve’s apartment.

 

“Jesus, Buck. At least get through the door first,” Steve berates teasingly, even though his statement makes him realize just how bad his apartment had gotten in the few weeks since he got back.

 

Bucky quirks his lips up. “Sorry, Stevie. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that you live in a rat’s nest.”

 

Steve closes the door behind him and looks around. The sink is just on the verge of overflowing with dishes, and he’s got books and papers scattered on the coffee table. At least it isn’t completely empty and full of dust like it had been.

 

“I guess I’ve kinda been holding back on the cleaning,” he admits, only lying a little while rubbing the back of his neck.

 

Bucky hums in agreement, looking pointedly at a cold mug of coffee left on the side table.

 

“Hey,” Steve says indignantly, almost like a warning. “That’s from this morning. I didn’t have time to finish it because I had to come and pick you up.” He walks by to sweep it up, going over to dump the rest in the sink.

 

“And now you’re just going to pile it on top of the other dishes,” Bucky notes as Steve does exactly that.

 

Steve sighs. “Yep. Lemme show you your room.” He gestures for Bucky to follow, leading him down the hall.

 

“Hope it’s not a pigsty like the rest of the place,” Bucky says from behind Steve.

 

“It’s not even that bad,” Steve argues, opening a door on the right.

 

The guest room, as always, is immaculately clean, offsetting the rest of the apartment. There’s a queen bed with tight, army-precision corners, and a dresser with the drawers all closed. It’s bare, but only for now.

 

“We can get you your own clothes soon, but for now you can just wear mine,” Steve offers.

 

Bucky nods, roaming over to the bed. He sits down on the edge, looking up at Steve. “All that stuff I had in Bucharest,” he starts, “is it still there?”

 

Steve fidgets. “Your backpack?” he says, and Bucky immediately perks up. “Tony’ll probably still have it.” Steve sighs. The last thing he wants to do is talk to Tony. Especially about such a little thing like a backpack. But Bucky’s still looking up at him hopefully, and Steve has no idea what’s in the bag, but it’s clearly important to him. “I don’t know about the rest, but I’ll talk to him.”

 

“Thanks, Steve,” Bucky says, then flops back onto the bed with a sigh of relief, arms splayed out. It’s an open, trusting gesture that Steve doesn’t let go unnoticed. And he can finally breathe easier than he’d been able to ever since Bucky had gone back into cryo.

  
“Get some rest, Buck,” Steve tells him softly, backing out of the room and shutting the door. He anxiously scrubs back his hair as he walks back to the living room. He eyes the sink. He’ll start with the dishes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I mentioned before, I'm the ultimate procrastinator, so guess who's posting another chapter instead of doing the piles of homework that keep building up around my bed? Me! Also I bombed my band audition today so this made me feel better. I have another audition next week for jazz, so expect a chapter around then after I fail that. Anyways, enjoy!

It takes Steve four days to work up the courage to call Tony.

 

By then, he’s forced himself to clean up the apartment and actually take care of himself so Bucky won’t get suspicious. It works well, and it pushes Steve to really think about how he’s been destroying himself. Bucky helps him piece himself back together without even knowing.

 

Bucky’s in the shower, and the sounds of the water give Steve a little strength. Knowing that Bucky’s here, back in Steve’s life, and it’s Steve’s job to get his stuff back, even if it means facing up to Tony.

 

He stares at his phone—pulled up on Tony’s number—for an uncomfortably long amount of time, thumb hovering over the dial button. He keeps telling himself to hurry up before Bucky gets out of the shower. He presses dial.

 

Every time it rings, Steve’s anxiety ramps up another notch. And it rings for a  _ long  _ time. Just before Steve’s nerves call it quits, there’s a click and the ringing stops.

 

“You are damn lucky I’m having a good day,” Stark says, short and clipped.

 

Steve rubs at his forehead, keeping his elbow on his knee. He’s hunched over, looking at his socked feet. This was a bad idea. 

 

_ For Bucky. Do it for Bucky. _

 

“Tony,” Steve starts, low and gentle. “Sorry to call you out of the blue.”

 

There’s silence on the other line, intermixed with slight crackling. Then, “It’s fine.” Tony lets out a small breath. “I got your letter,” he says, steering the subject away from their tense greeting.

 

“Yeah?” Steve replies, picking at a thread on the knee of his jeans. 

 

“Yep. A bit sappy, Rogers, but I would expect nothing less.” And the stiff awkwardness is gone, Tony coming to the rescue like he’s always done, cracking jokes and breaking the ice. “Very patriotic, the way you talk about family.”

 

Steve huffs out a laugh under his breath. “I didn’t want to end it the way we did,” he explains. 

 

“Yeah, well, the Accords are signed now. Officially. Thought you should know.”

 

Steve’s heart sinks. “That’s...good, Tony. I’m glad for you.” He tries in vain to put some sort of positive emotion in his voice. Tony sees right through him.

 

“I can tell,” he says dryly. “It’s fine. You and your rookies are considered rogue now, so it doesn’t involve any of you. Why exactly did you call? Miss me so soon?” Tony teases, though his tone is somewhat apathetic.

 

“I wanted to ask you something,” Steve tells him. There’s a hole in his jeans now, and the thread trails down his knee as he continues to pull at it.

 

“Oh?”

 

“Uh, yeah. It’s about Bucky.” He holds his breath, waiting for the reaction.

 

Tony hums distastefully, quick and cut off.

 

“He had a bag,” Steve starts, “when you took us in that first time.” He cringes, remembering in vivid detail the chase down the highway.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Do you still have it? I kinda...need it,” he asks awkwardly.

 

“It’s probably still somewhere. Might be in the Raft prison. If it is I can’t just go and grab it, so sorry ‘bout that, but I’ll check around, all right?”

 

Steve breathes out in relief. “Thanks, Tony. It means a lot.”

 

“Keep your star spangled ass safe, Rogers. I’ll be around.” 

 

Steve doesn’t even get a chance to say goodbye before Tony ends the call with an abrupt beep. He leans forward to set the phone on the now-clean coffee table. He’d moved the papers and books back to the bookshelf on the far wall. The bookshelf itself wasn’t too organized, but at least the living room looked better.

 

“Who were you talkin’ to?” 

 

Steve pivots his head, finding Bucky with a towel wrapped low around his waist held up by his only hand. His hair’s dark with water, little rivulets travelling down his bare chest to disappear under the towel. Bucky’s eyebrows are raised, waiting for Steve’s answer.

 

“Uh, Tony, actually.” Steve scratches at his eyebrow. “He said he’ll check around for your bag, but if it’s at the Raft…” he trails off.

 

“Oh. That’s fine.” Bucky shrugs his good shoulder. “M’just, gonna go get dressed.”

 

“Hey, wait,” Steve stops him.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Maybe you wanna go out to lunch? We could go to that diner around the corner?” Steve asks hopefully. His fingers find that loose thread again. He hasn’t really been out in public at all, but it doesn’t seem so scary with Bucky there.

 

Bucky nods, a small smile on his lips. “Yeah, sure. Why not.”

 

“Great.” Steve smiles brightly as Bucky turns to head down the hall. He goes for Steve’s bedroom like usual to go hunt out some clothes. He’s taken a liking to Steve’s sweaters and long sleeved shirts. And Steve’s been down a couple sweatpants lately. He'd realized that Bucky likes to be warm, covered, protected. He definitely doesn’t mind Bucky wearing his clothes, actually finds it a bit endearing, but when he does eventually get him his own clothes, he’ll go for the thermal stuff. 

 

Bucky comes out a few minutes later in a pair of Steve’s jeans and one of his plain t-shirts. He’s got a navy blue sweatshirt zipped halfway, the empty sleeve grasped in his hand. Steve turns and watches as Bucky licks his lips.

 

“I–I can’t, uh–” He shrugs and gestures with his head to the loose sleeve. “I need some help,” he admits sheepishly.

 

Steve smiles and stands up, shaking his head. “You need me to help you get dressed?” 

 

Bucky scowls at him. “You try it with only one arm,” he challenges, standing up stiff as Steve walks up to him and takes the sleeve in his hand.

 

Steve continues to smile, beaming at Bucky as he glares at him. Steve looks down to the sleeve, twisting it up in his hand. “How do you wanna do this?” he asks, sounding cheeky. 

 

Bucky shoves at him. “Stop that. Don’t looks so happy,” he orders.

 

“Let me get a safety pin to hold this up,” Steve offers, playfully tugging on the empty sleeve.

 

Bucky is completely unamused at how much Steve’s enjoying this, so Steve keeps on milking it. Just for fun.

 

“Need me to tie your shoes, too?” he asks, rummaging around in the kitchen drawer for the safety pins. He finds one among the paperclips and brings it over, folding up Bucky’s sleeve with a smile. He thinks this is the most he’s smiled in weeks.

 

Bucky glares daggers at him. “No,” he spits out.

 

“We could get you some of those velcro shoes. No laces no problem, right?” he suggests easily, tugging on Bucky’s sleeve to make sure it’ll stay.

 

“You’re such a little shit, Rogers,” Bucky tells him, going over to the door where the shoes are scattered around. He shoves his feet into his boots, kneeling down with an air of smugness as he steps on one of the laces with the opposite boot, deftly tying them.

 

“I know,” Steve replies, toeing on his own shoes. He realizes it would be nearly impossible to tie them with only one hand, especially without practice. He still loves teasing Bucky, and he’s glad that he’s so easy about the subject. It’s not something they have to tiptoe around. He stands back up. “Ready?” He reaches over to the small table he keeps by the door to grab his hat and glasses. There’s an extra hat that he snags and pulls onto Bucky’s head.

 

“Yeah, punk,” he says, quirking a smile and adjusting the hat.

The diner is gratefully quiet when they get there. They find themselves a booth near the back where they can quietly chat.

 

A pretty waitress with her hair tied back gives them menus and their requested waters. 

 

“I was thinking about a burger,” Steve says, eyeing the menu.

 

Bucky hums noncommittally, flipping a hard plastic page. “I’m thinking omelette.”

 

Steve’s first thought is that it’s too late in the day for an omelette. His second thought is to just let Bucky order whatever the hell he wants. And his third is to check the time. He glances at the clock ticking away on the wall adjacent to them. 11:04. Acceptable for lunch or breakfast items. What was that called again? Brunch? 

 

Steve’s fourth thought is that he’s overthinking this. 

 

They order when the waitress comes back. Steve’s burger and Bucky’s omelette.

 

“You’ve been looking better,” Steve comments, looking at the fading bags under Bucky’s eyes. You can’t see them unless you’re looking, like Steve has been, but they’re more of a sallow yellow now, just barely visible against Bucky’s skin.

 

Bucky blinks at him, then grins. “Yeah, well, electroshock therapy really takes it outta ya.” His grin falls when Steve’s does.

 

This is one of those subjects they have to tiptoe around.

 

“Bucky,” Steve sighs.

 

“Sorry, Steve. Didn’t mean anything by it. Swear,” he says.

 

“Yeah. I know. It’s just, hard for  _ me  _ I guess.”

 

Bucky laughs. “Yeah, I bet,” he chuckles. 

 

Steve thinks it’s a weird thing to laugh about. “Sorry,” he says softly. “I’m being inconsiderate. I just need to know that you’re safe  _ now.  _ With me.”

 

“You’re so sappy,” he tells him, just like Tony. Steve’s come to realize it’s just his personality. “ _ With me _ my ass, Rogers. Just twenty minutes ago you offered to buy me velcro shoes like a four-year-old.” He shakes his head, taking a sip of his water. 

 

Steve shrugs, the grin making its appearance back on his face. 

 

“You know you’ve been looking better too. Your eyes look brighter. Happier.” Bucky smiles and shrugs.

 

Sam had said the same thing about his eyes. That they were dull. He’s glad Bucky makes them brighter. 

 

Their plates come, and they spend the rest of the time enjoying their meals and chatting quietly. Bucky makes a game to see how many fries he can steal off of Steve’s plate before he gets mad. Steve does not get mad and Bucky manages to eat all of his fries.

 

They walk back to Steve’s apartment, bumping shoulders and sharing smiles.

 

* * *

 

 

Sam stops by about a week later.

 

Steve’s managed to get Bucky his own clothes. They’d gone down to the department store a few blocks away and picked out whatever they thought Bucky would need. 

 

“I can just wear yours,” seemed to be Bucky’s motto that day.

 

Steve’s was, “You need your own, Buck.”

 

Steve kept his internal promise about the thermal wear, and Bucky seemed on board with it, so they bought a handful of long sleeved thermal shirts and heat-trapping sweatpants. They picked up jeans as well, and a shirt that said  _ Team Captain America _  that made Bucky crack up. Steve had to physically drag him away from that section. 

 

And Sam stops by a few days after their small shopping spree.

 

Steve’s knocked out on the couch when there’s a sharp rapping at his door. He jolts awake and as soon as he’s sitting he slaps his hand to the back of his neck when it twinges painfully. He quickly grabs the remote off the floor and turns the TV off. He’d fallen asleep to his Netflix queue the night before, and vows to never do it again, in favor of his neck. He shuffles to the door, trying to smooth his hair down.

 

“I like that look on you, Rogers,” Sam says smugly when he opens the door. He slides past Steve, inviting himself in. “All domesticity and tired old man vibe.”

 

“It’s good to see you, Sam,” Steve says, ignoring the old man comment, and the fact that he’s still in his pajamas. He’s surprised to see him back from DC.

 

“You too, man,” Sam responds, helping himself as he sits down on the couch, right in the indent Steve had left from sleeping there all night. “How’ve you been holdin’ up?” He puts a little edge to his voice, hinting.

 

“Fine, Sam. No need to worry about me,” he replies, sitting down in the old, worn out armchair. 

 

“That’s a lie and you know it. You’re a mess, all the time. And it’s always about Barnes,” he berates, and Steve has to admit, he’s got a point. 

 

He shrugs, slightly flustered with the truth bomb Sam has just thrown at him.

 

“How’s he, by the way? Fresh out of the freezer like a new man.” Sam smiles, like he’s the funniest guy in Brooklyn.

 

“He’s good too. He’s sleeping now, but we were just out the other day, buying clothes,” Steve tells him.

 

“In public?” Sam checks, disbelieving. He leans forward in interest.

 

Steve nods, offering a small smile. “Yeah, he’s doing really well with all that stuff.”

 

“Wow, good man. And I’m talking about you.” Sam nods, proud. Then, in a change of subject,  “A little birdy told me you’ve been talking to  _ Stark?" _  Sam says, like he can’t believe it.

 

Steve chuckles nervously. “Who’s your birdy?”

 

Sam shrugs. “Nat’s been keeping tabs on everyone.”

 

“So you know it’s true then,” Steve states more than asks.

 

Sam hums. “Thought you’d want to confirm it. What’d you talk to him about anyway?” 

 

“He’s still got some of our stuff from when he took Bucky in.” He shrugs. “Wanted it back. He was good about it, though,” he tells Sam.

 

“Good. That asshole needs to learn his place.” Sam snorts and shakes his head. “You got any coffee?” he asks suddenly. “Sounds good right about now.” He stands, looking at Steve expectantly.

 

“You can start brewing a pot if you want,” Steve offers, lifting himself out of the armchair. He follows Sam to the kitchen and slides onto the bar stool in front of the island. “And Tony’s not an asshole, he just...is strong about his beliefs,” he decides on.

 

Sam snorts. “Sounds like someone else I know,” he says, fiddling with the coffee maker until it beeps. 

 

“Gonna call me an asshole too?” he questions.

 

“You’re an asshole, Steve,” Sam tells him. “Not gonna deny it anymore.”

 

Steve smiles ruefully. “Thanks, Sam. I can always count on you.”

 

Sam opens his mouth to reply—Steve guesses probably to say something horribly rude, like Sam does—when the coffee maker behind him fizzes and hisses; neither are good sounds. Steve turns his focus on that, and Sam does too.

 

“Aw, man,” he whines, smacking the top of it childishly. He opens the top of it, and a puff of smoke rises out. “Your machine’s busted, man. Probably a good thing too,” he notes, bending down a bit to examine it. “It’s like the dinosaurs drank coffee from this back in their day.”

 

Steve glares at him, unamused. “It worked fine before you got your hands on it.”

 

Sam turns on him, the hurt evident on his face. He places a hand over his chest, eyes wide. “Steven, I would never. The only reason I  _ came _ here in the first place was to get coffee, and your prehistoric machine can’t fulfill my primary needs. I’m disappointed in you, Rogers.” He shakes his head, like he’s actually crestfallen about being denied coffee.

 

“Don’t you have a coffee machine?” Steve asks suspiciously.

 

“Yes, but I needed to check up on you. I haven’t heard from you in awhile and I was starting to get worried.” And the subject has changed, from broken coffee makers to Steve’s inability to take care of himself.

 

“I called you earlier this week to tell you I’d be busy with Bucky,” he reminds him.

 

Sam says, “Yeah, well. I didn’t think that meant you’d totally seclude yourself from human interaction all together,” he explains.

 

“Sorry, Sam. I’m a bit more busy than I thought I’d be,” Steve admits. “And I’m  _ so  _ glad to have Bucky back. It’s just...familiar. It’s something I needed.”

 

“Yeah, I get it, man. I do. I’ve just missed you, you know. And it’s been weird ever since the Accords.” Sam leans back on the counter, watching Steve carefully, like’s he’s triggered something in him.

 

“Tony signed them,” Steve says, avoiding Sam’s watchful gaze. “It’s in action, now. Everything we did amounted to nothing.” He sighs, rubbing his forehead tiredly.

 

“Not for nothing,” Sam defends. “The Accords don’t apply to us.”

 

“Yeah, because we’ve gone rogue, Sam. That’s not exactly a win.” Steve does not want to talk about this right now. It’s too early.

 

Sam reaches across the counter top to clap on Steve’s shoulder sympathetically. “Don’t be like that, Steve. You did what you believed in, and that’s enough.”

 

Steve gives him a small smile. “Thanks, Sam.” He hears a slight shuffling behind him, and turns to see Bucky standing at the mouth of the hallway, still in his plaid pajama pants that are actually Steve’s, and one of his own thermal tees. The left sleeve’s been messily chopped off so it wouldn’t dangle. He’d taken scissors to all of his pajama shirts after Steve told him it’d be safer in case the safety pin popped open during the night.

 

“Hey, Buck,” Steve smiles, warm and genuine.

 

Bucky eyes Sam, then says, “Didn’t wanna wake you last night. Sorry.”

 

Steve shakes his head as Bucky walks closer. “Don’t worry about it.” He heads for the coffee maker, and Steve barely gets out, “Uh, actually–” before Bucky turns to glare at Sam.

 

“It was you, wasn’t it?” He glares at Sam, instantly blaming him.

 

“Possibly,” Sam tells him warily.

 

Bucky huffs. “Two weeks outta cryo and you’re already ruining my life.”

 

Sam laughs and pulls Bucky into a hug. Bucky doesn’t return it. “You’re such a pain in my ass, Barnes,” he says, patting Bucky on the back before pulling away.

 

“I think you’ve got it the other way around,” Bucky says, pointedly slapping the coffee machine. “Where’s my coffee, Wilson?”

 

“Not my fault you’ve got a coffee maker older than yourself.” Sam shrugs, skirting around a scowling Bucky to the fridge to scout for something else to drink.

 

Steve watches their interaction with a strange fascination. The Bucky that’s talking to Sam is a sarcastic, irritated thing, that probably doesn’t even mind Sam that much, but he’s got a reputation to uphold with him.

 

Sam reaches into the fridge and brings out their bottle of orange juice. It’s almost empty, so when he unscrews the cap to drink it straight from the bottle, Steve doesn’t think much of it. Bucky apparently does.

 

“Don’t you dare,” he says dangerously.

 

Sam only stares at him as he raises the orange juice to his lips and promptly chugs it, maintaining eye contact the entire time.

 

Steve can’t help but laugh, and it’s more of a sharp bark, but it makes Bucky turn his steely gaze onto him instead. 

 

“Really, Steve?” he demands.

 

Steve’s kind of just shaking with silent laughter now, watching in delight as Bucky snatches the bottle right out of Sam’s hands. He forcefully sets it down on the counter.

 

“Use a glass, animal,” he says, ending it with a chagrined huff.

 

“Don’t worry about it, Buck,” Steve assures him. “I’ve been meaning to go grocery shopping anyway. Let him drink the rest.”

 

“No, no,” Sam laughs, hands in the air in mock surrender. “I’ll give him this. But what  _ I’m  _ wondering, is how this guy’s got the audacity to call  _ me  _ an animal.” He reaches up to roughly pat Bucky’s cheek, and Bucky snatches his wrist and forces it away from his face. 

 

“What d’you mean by that, exactly?” Bucky asks, daring Sam with his eyes to actually tell him.

 

“You need to shave, man,” Sam tells him.

 

Bucky scowls.

 

Steve’s noticed that Bucky  _ has  _ been letting it go lately. He’s got a pretty impressive scruff going, but Steve hasn’t mentioned it. He figures Bucky will shave when he wants to. And Steve gets it. Putting a razor right against your skin isn’t exactly the best feeling in the world. Especially after 70 years of torture. Bucky has a good reason to be wary of sharp things.

 

“You try shaving with one arm, asshole,” Bucky shoots back.

 

Steve wasn’t expecting that. And maybe Bucky’s just trying to save face in front of Sam, but if he’s not, Steve had never really thought of his lack of arm being the problem. It kind of baffles Steve that the thought had never crossed his mind. He feels maybe a bit ashamed. He should’ve realized that was the issue.

 

“Uh, maybe we should stop,” Steve says awkwardly.

 

“Maybe,” Sam agrees. “Sorry about the juice.”

 

“It’s not a problem, Sam. I need to get more soon anyway,” Steve tells him. 

 

Sam nods. “You’re gonna need a new coffee maker, too, unfortunately.”

 

Steve sighs, eyeing Bucky as he scoots around Sam and goes for the living room, silently turning the TV back on and flopping down into the cushions.

 

“I know. I’ve been needing a new one for a long time anyways. I guess I’ve got some shopping to do,” he says.

 

“Looks like it, and, hey,” he starts talking a little quieter, so Bucky won’t hear, “didn’t mean to upset your homeboy. Guess I went too far that time.” 

 

Steve waves it off. “Don’t worry about it. Bucky’s tough. He can take a little prodding at.”

 

Sam nods, satisfied. “Good. Maybe you should bring him out when you go shopping. It’ll be good for him. He’s doing well though. You and him have been makin’ some good progress.”   
  


“Sometimes I forget you’re a VA counselor,” Steve chuckles.

 

Sam smiles back at him. “Sometimes I forget you’re Captain America,” he replies. “It ain’t always a bad thing.”

 

Steve grins up at him.

 

“I should probably get going though, just wanted to stop in and check up on you. Make sure you haven’t died or anything while I wasn’t there,” he says, teasing. Steve knows there’s a deeper meaning behind it.

 

“I’m able to take care of myself, Sam. Was doing just fine before I met you.” He stands up as Sam walks around the island counter, following him to the door.

 

“Yeah, but now you’re better.” He claps Steve on the shoulder before reeling him in for a hug. “It was great seeing you again, Steve. You should call more.”

 

“Of course,” Steve promises, leaning over to open the door for him. 

 

“You and Barnes have your fun, you hear me. You and him deserve a break,” Sam tells him.

 

Steve grins and shakes his head. “See ya around, Sam.”

 

He turns back to Bucky after the door’s shut and walks over to join him on the couch. Bucky leans into him as soon as he’s planted, and early morning TV doesn’t sound too bad anymore without coffee.

 

“You all right?” Steve asks quietly, snaking his hand around to place it on Bucky’s knee.

 

Bucky sighs. “M’fine. Sam’s a good guy, just irritating,” he admits, resting his head on Steve’s shoulder and keeping his eyes on the TV screen.

 

Steve hums, gently rubbing at Bucky’s knee. Bucky smells like Steve’s shampoo, this close up, and something a bit woody. He smells like home. It’s familiar, and Steve’s never realized how much he’s missed the simplicity of this. He breathes calmly for a few beats, trying to make the moment last.

 

“Steve?” Bucky murmurs, looking up at him through his eyelashes, barely moving his head from Steve’s shoulder.

 

“Hm? Yeah, Buck?” He glances down, slowly sliding his hand off of Bucky’s kneecap to rest on his own.

 

“You spaced out there for a sec. You okay?” Bucky asks, concerned. He’s moved his hand so it’s pressing against Steve’s thigh.

 

“Sorry,” he says, leaning back into Bucky. He rests his head on top of Bucky’s, breathing in deep the familiar scent of their little bubble. “Just thinking about what we need when we go shopping,” he tells him.

 

Bucky hums, resting even heavier into Steve’s side. 

 

“You wanna come with?” Steve asks.

 

“Mm, not now,” Bucky mumbles.

 

“It’s like nine AM, Bucky,” Steve laughs. “I’m retired now. We can go whenever you want.”

 

“Retired, huh?” Bucky suggests. “You make yourself seem like the age you actually are.” Steve watches him break out into a smile. “Such an old man, you are, Rogers,” he teases.

 

“We’re the same age, Buck,” Steve retorts, hitching up his shoulder where Bucky’s head is. Bucky scoffs out an indignant sound.

 

“Stop that,” he orders, trying to get comfortable again. He shifts restlessly, slouching right up against Steve’s side.

 

Steve laughs. “Don’t call me old, then.”

 

“Not my fault it’s true,” Bucky replies, smug.

 

“Shut up. You’re such a jerk,” Steve retaliates, shaking his head with a smile.

 

“Yeah, punk?” Bucky teases.

 

Steve’s missed this. He’s missed their banter and their closeness and the familiar laughter. He takes a few shallow breaths, trying to keep it under control. But Bucky can see right through him.

 

“Hey, Steve,” he says worriedly, moving up a little to look him in the eye. “You sure you’re all right?” he checks again.

 

And he’s just so genuine, looking at Steve with round, concerned eyes. Steve nods. “Just fine, Buck,” he says, and he means it, for the first time in a long time.


	3. Chapter 3

Bucky has good days. But he’s also got bad days.

 

Good days take up the majority of the week. Bucky’s normal and happy and witty, glad to be with Steve at all hours of the day.

 

He’s had a few bad days as well. Sometimes he won’t come out of his room all day, and Steve won’t see him once. And if he does come out, he’s receded. He doesn’t say a word, just shuffles to the kitchen and back again, still in his pajamas. 

 

Steve usually leaves him alone on those days, so Bucky can figure himself out on his own. He’s usually fine the next day, comes out from his bedroom perfectly fine, joining Steve for breakfast.

 

But it’s been three days, and Bucky still hasn’t come out of his slump. Three days since Steve last had a conversation that didn’t involve Bucky’s non-committal grunts. Three days since Bucky’s last shower.

 

He braces himself for about half an hour before finally forcing himself to knock on Bucky’s door. 

 

There’s no immediate answer.

 

“Bucky?” he calls out softly. “Can we talk?” He waits hopefully for a few more seconds before there’s a slight, muffled shuffling from inside.

 

The door cracks open, and Bucky eyes him before opening it up a little more. 

 

“Can I come in?” Steve asks hopefully.

 

Bucky stands there for a moment, completely still. He nods eventually and moves out of the way for Steve to come through. Steve offers him a small smile, squeezing his way through the door and shutting it behind him.

 

“Haven’t seen you in awhile,” Steve starts gently.

 

Bucky just shrugs, sitting on the side of his bed, hunched in on himself and fiddling with the sheets beneath him. 

 

“Are you doing okay?” Steve joins Bucky on the bed, sitting a careful distance away.

 

“M’fine,” he mumbles.

 

Steve knows it’s a lie. “D’you wanna talk about it?” Steve suggests, searching Bucky’s face.

 

Bucky sighs, put out, then crawls closer to Steve, enveloping him an awkward hug. Steve shifts and wraps his arms around Bucky so it’s more comfortable. Bucky presses himself closer, burying his head in Steve’s chest. His shoulders shake when he lets out a sob.

 

It startles Steve, and he gathers as much of Bucky in his arms as he can, practically pulling him onto his lap. Bucky helps by throwing one of his legs across Steve’s lap, soaking up as much of him as he can.

 

“Hey, Buck,” he whispers gently, right in his ear. “What’s got you all twisted up, huh?” He coasts a hand up and down Bucky’s back, where he’d been wearing the same shirt for three days. Steve can’t deny he smells a bit like stale sweat, but Bucky will always smell like himself underneath. 

 

“Everything’s okay.” He runs a hand up into Bucky’s hair, feeling the strands between his fingers.

 

Bucky shivers violently, pulling Steve’s attention away from his hair, which is still strangely soft, even after not washing it for awhile. He pulls away, and Steve catches a glimpse of his eyes; rimmed with red and the dark bags from when he first got here making an appearance again.

 

“ _ Bucky, _ ” Steve says, extremely concerned. “Bucky, tell me what’s wrong,” he pleads.

 

Bucky breathes heavily for a few moments, the side of his face smushed against Steve’s t-shirt. He’s awkwardly hunched over from the way he’s sitting in Steve’s lap and also pressing his face into his chest. He’s still got his arm around Steve’s waist, too. It can’t be comfortable.

 

“M’sorry,” Bucky mumbles, barely coherent, still gasping slightly for breath. “M’sorry,” he repeats.

 

“What’s goin’ on, Buck? What’s the matter?” He leans back, trying to catalogue Bucky’s expression, but Bucky just moves with him, unwilling to separate. 

 

He shakes his head, keeping his head pressed to Steve’s chest.

 

“Bucky, talk to me.  _ Please. _ ” He’s reduced to begging now, trying to get Bucky to open up.

 

“M’just tired,” Bucky admits. “M’tired.”

 

“Get some sleep, Buck,” Steve tells him. “Please. Just get some sleep.” He cradles Bucky, one hand on his back and the other wrapped around his shoulders.

 

Bucky shakes his head again. “Can’t,” is all he says.

 

“Why not?” Steve asks. 

 

“Nightmares keep me up,” Bucky tells him quietly, embarrassed.

 

“Oh, Buck.” Steve’s heart shrivels up in his chest, aching. He remembers when he used to get horrible bouts of nightmares. After he woke up, and then again after the incident with the Triskelion and the Potomac. And he was alone. Sam was there, but he yearned for Bucky. He makes it his mission to do as much for Bucky as he couldn’t do for himself.

 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” 

 

Bucky shakes his head, a choked noise making its way out from his throat. “M’sorry. Thought I could handle it.” He takes a deep, shuddering breath to continue. “They’ve been bad, lately.”

 

“You need rest, Bucky,” Steve tells him.

 

“I  _ can’t, _ ” Bucky persists. His hand clutches the fabric of Steve’s shirt on his back. “I wish I could. I just  _ can’t. _ ” He lets out a heated, frustrated noise.

 

“Okay, okay,” Steve says softly, rubbing his hand across Bucky’s shoulder blades. Bucky shivers, curling in closer, trying desperately to leech warmth from Steve. “Let’s just sit for a little bit then, yeah?”

 

Bucky stays quiet, clinging to Steve like a sloth on a branch.

 

Steve removes his hand from Bucky’s back and scoots backward little by little until he’s resting on the headboard of Bucky’s bed. Bucky easily goes with him, molded to Steve like clay. He rearranges himself until he’s completely on Steve’s lap, curled up like a cat. He’s got his eyes clenched shut, trying to calm his sporadic breathing. 

 

Steve shushes him, running his hands everywhere he can get; through his hair, down his sides, over his back.

 

Bucky makes a noise and presses himself as tight as he can against Steve’s body. He’s resting in the V of Steve’s legs, his own legs thrown over Steve’s left one. 

 

His metal stump digs uncomfortably into Steve’s sternum, but he ignores it in order to hug him snugly, his chin resting on Bucky’s head. He continues to slowly knead at Bucky’s back, moving his hand up and down to get every area.

 

Bucky relaxes minutely beneath his hand, his breaths finally starting to even out. 

 

“You all right?” Steve checks again, and he sighs in relief when Bucky nods slightly against him. 

 

They sit together for a long time, Steve doesn’t know exactly how long. He measures Bucky’s breathing to pass the time, staying warm underneath Bucky’s body heat. Bucky doesn’t move a muscle the entire time, but he does eventually fall asleep, right on top of Steve.

 

Steve keeps him in place with his arms, and ignores the tingling in his legs in favor of trying to fall asleep as well.

 

He wakes up hours later stiff, propped up on the headboard with his head hanging awkwardly on his shoulder.

 

Bucky’s gone, and Steve feels a small prick of disappointment at that, but he doesn’t know why. 

 

He slowly moves off the bed, careful of his sore muscles. He shuffles out into the hall and finds the shower running, the sounds filling the apartment. He smiles to himself.

 

Bucky just needed some human contact.

 

He heads for the kitchen, and sighs defeatedly when his eyes land on the broken coffee maker. He really needs to throw it out; every time he looks at it he can just  _ feel  _ himself becoming more sluggish and tired.

 

He grabs the carton of eggs from the fridge, and it’s concerningly light. He pops it open, and there are only three eggs left. He scrubs at his face, staring at the three lonely eggs. He really needs to go grocery shopping. 

 

He pulls out a pan next and sets it on the stove, turning the heat on. He cracks every egg and watches them spread out in the metal pan, tossing the shells into the garbage disposal. 

 

The eggs are nearly done by the time he hears the shower shut off. He gives the pan a few more stirs before reaching over to lower the heat. He grabs a couple plates from the cupboard and sets them aside for when Bucky comes back out.

 

He’s about to turn the stove off when his phone goes off. He quickly shuts the heat down and picks up his phone from the island counter. The name that flashes across the screen momentarily surprises him.

 

_ 1 Message from Tony Stark _

 

He swipes to unlock, opening up the message app.

 

**Tony:** _ Found your boy’s bag. Took me awhile but I found it with Ross. When do you wanna come pick it up? _

 

Relief washes over Steve instantaneously. He starts typing back.

 

**Steve:** _ Thanks Tony. It means a lot. I can stop by the compound whenever you’re free _

 

**Tony:** _ I’m free all week. Stop by whenever you want _

 

**Steve:** _ Will do _

 

“Steve?”

 

Bucky’s soft voice jerks Steve away from his phone. He sets it back down on the counter and smiles at him. 

 

“Hey, Buck,” he greets. “Feelin’ better?”

 

Bucky nods, looking down and nervously tugging on his loose sleeve. He’s even wearing jeans, Steve notices. 

 

Steve’s still wearing his clothes from yesterday. They’re a bit wrinkled, but still suitable for the public eye.

 

“Need me to pin that up for ya?” Steve offers.

 

Bucky nods again, shuffling forward. Steve snatches a safety pin off of the counter and moves up to his left side, folding up the long sleeve.

 

“It’s starting to get warmer,” Steve notes. “You won’t have to wear long sleeved shirts anymore.”

 

Bucky only shrugs. “T-shirts don’t hide it,” he says.

 

The corner of Steve’s lips twitches, and he moves his hand up to the metal casing underneath Bucky’s shirt. “All right,” Steve acquiesces. “That’s okay.”

 

Bucky blinks at him, mouth parted like he wants to say something, and when he doesn’t, Steve says, “I made eggs. If you want any.”

 

Bucky’s lips quirk up into a small smile. “Yeah. I’d love some.” He slides onto one of the bar stools at the counter, watching Steve grab the plates.

 

He fills them each with a generous amount and places it in front of Bucky before joining beside him at the counter. After he takes a bite, he cautiously turns to Bucky, who’s very focused on shoveling eggs into his mouth after not eating more than a few bites of food for three days. “Tony says he’s got your bag,” he starts.

 

Bucky drops his fork, eyes lighting up as he looks at Steve excitedly. Steve can’t help but smile at him.

 

“We can stop by the compound whenever you want to go and grab it,” he tells him.

 

“Today?” Bucky asks hopefully.

 

Steve nods. “We need groceries anyway, if you don’t mind.”

 

“Course not. And a new coffee maker?” 

 

Steve laughs. “Definitely. Don’t know how much longer I can live without it.”

 

Bucky groans. “I’ve been having stress dreams involving that piece of crap. That’s how much I miss it,” he says.

 

Steve chuckles, bringing a forkful of eggs to his mouth. 

 

“Are you worried about seeing Tony?” Bucky asks, turning more serious and fidgety.

 

“I could be asking you the same question,” Steve replies, keeping his eyes glued to his plate. His fork clinks against the ceramic plate.

 

Bucky shrugs nonchalantly. “I guess. I’m hoping he got rid of all his anger for me along with my arm,” he tells Steve, sort of passive aggressively. 

 

“He’s got my shield,” Steve says. “I’m not scared.”

 

Bucky smiles at him, then playfully shoves his shoulder with his own. “He could use that against you. That doesn’t scare you?”

 

“No.” Steve shakes his head. More eggs go in.

 

“Slow down, Steve. Wouldn’t want you to choke,” Bucky laughs, joyfully watching Steve scarf down his breakfast.

 

“M’hungry,” Steve argues with his mouth full. “I got a fast metabolism.”

 

“So do I, Steve. I still have control over my body.” Bucky laughs again, and Steve’s cheeks tint themselves pink.

 

“Shut up. You’re such a jerk.” He shakes his head, hiding a smile.

 

“Yeah, punk? You wanna go there?”

 

Steve stands up, taking his empty plate to the sink. He chuckles. “Nah, Buck. Wouldn’t wanna hurt your fragile feelings.”

 

“Really, Steve? That’s how it’s gonna be?” He shoves the last of his eggs into his mouth and gladly slides it closer to Steve.

 

Steve stares at him, unamused, as he dumps Bucky’s plate next to his. “Come on. Go get your shoes on,” he says, ignoring Bucky’s question and brushing it off as rhetorical.

 

“Fine,” Bucky relents, still with a little smile. He slips off the stool and heads for the door, Steve following behind. Bucky half-assedly stuffs his feet into his boots while Steve does the same to his sneakers, reaching over to grab his keys and wallet at the same time. He also snatches his hat and glasses as an afterthought. He never really likes wearing them, but he likes being recognized even less.

 

“We’re gonna have to take the subway,” Steve tells him, pocketing the items.

 

Bucky sighs, idly scratching his chin—which is still covered with stubble. “Yeah, I figured.” He reaches up to cover the metal stump through the shirt fabric. “Just–just stay on my left, yeah?”

 

Steve nods. “Course, Buck.”

 

Bucky doesn’t let Steve stray from his side the entire walk to the station. Steve’s practically glued to his body, shielding anyone and everyone from the empty sleeve.

 

Things are okay until they get onto the train. There’s just too many people in such a small space. Bucky had been stiff when they’d gotten to the station, but now he’s completely  _ frozen.  _ Steve keeps a comforting hand on his lower back as they board, staying pressed to Bucky’s left.

 

He grabs a pole with his free hand and wraps the other full around Bucky’s waist to steady him. Bucky leans into him rigidly, and Steve’s a little scared that other people will look and judge. He lowers his head and convinces himself no one will care. Bucky needs this.

 

Bucky hides his face in Steve’s neck, breathing sporadically. Steve moves his hand higher up his back. “You okay?” he whispers, just as the train lurches into action.

 

His breath hitches when it does, but he manages a choked, “Yeah. M’fine.”

 

Steve knows it’s a lie. He tightens his grip on Bucky. 

 

“Can you keep talkin’?” Bucky asks quietly, barely discernible over the noise of the subway. 

 

“Yeah, uh let’s see,” Steve mumbles. “Maybe we can pick up a razor or somethin’ for you at the store. I can help you shave if you need. Wouldn’t be a problem. And, uh, about the coffee maker? Let’s get one of those fancy ones. I got the money for one, and we’d use it.”

 

Bucky nods against his neck to let him know he’s listening; that he’s helping.

 

“And eggs. We need eggs.”

 

* * *

 

The grocery store is gratefully slow for a Thursday. Bucky detaches himself from Steve as he goes to grab a cart, but he doesn’t move more than an inch or two from Steve’s right. Steve even takes off his sunglasses, setting them down in the cart.

 

They head to the produce section first, and Steve’s looking at apples as Bucky strays from him. He glances up to see Bucky a few fruit carts over, staring at the plums. Steve picks out his apples, eyes flicking up to him concernedly as he continues to just stare. 

 

He walks over cautiously. “Buck?” 

 

Bucky flinches and turns to Steve. “Sorry. I was just–” he stops, biting his bottom lip. “I was buying plums the day you found me.”

 

“In Bucharest?” Steve clarifies, a little baffled at why a fruit would affect Bucky so much.

 

Bucky nods. “S’when I saw the papers blamin’ me about Wakanda.” 

 

“Hey,” Steve says softly. “That’s okay. You wanna get some?” he asks, already spotting out the ones that look edible. 

 

Bucky shakes his head. “You get apples?” he checks, changing the subject.

 

“Uh, yeah.” He holds the bag up. “Got a couple different kinds. Didn’t know what you liked.”

 

“Those are fine,” Bucky assures him, taking them out of Steve’s hands to deposit them in their cart. “Anything else?”

 

Steve looks around. “Maybe some oranges,” he mutters, already heading towards that section. He picks out a few that don’t feel weird and squishy on the inside and turns back around with a bag of them. Bucky’s away from the cart, and Steve quickly finds him eyeing the bunches of bananas.

 

“Oh, Buck!” Steve blurts out, startling him. He jumps and looks to Steve, wide-eyed. Steve winces. “Sorry, sorry. Um, you probably don’t want those,” he says.

 

Bucky scrunches his eyebrows, looking thoroughly puzzled. “Why not?”

 

“They’re not the same as they used to be,” Steve explains. “I learned that the hard way. They’re kinda gross now.” Steve grimaces, remembering the mealy texture and bland flavor.

 

“Oh,” Bucky says. His hand slowly slides away from where it was placed on one of the bunches. “Okay.”

 

“I mean, you can get some if you want, but you’ll probably be eating them by yourself.”

 

Bucky chuckles. “That’s okay, Steve. I trust you. I won’t get the gross, 21st century bananas.”

 

Steve smiles. “Good. I don’t like to think about the first time I tried one. It was very traumatizing.”

 

Bucky hums. “Right. Traumatic fruit experience. Got it.” He laughs when Steve shoves at him. 

 

“I could say the same to you. Come on, I wanna go look at coffee makers.” He puts the oranges next to the apples and starts rolling the cart down the aisle, Bucky following close behind.

 

They stop at the dairy section first, picking up eggs and milk. Bucky selects some yogurt flavors and adds them to the pile. 

 

The store has an entire aisle dedicated to coffee products. Steve finds it a bit overwhelming.

 

“Just get this one,” Bucky says, motioning towards a white box. 

 

Steve shakes his head. “That looks like the one we had before. According to Sam it’s pretty old fashioned. And I don’t need it breaking down on me again.” 

 

Bucky huffs. “If I knew you’d be so serious about coffee makers.” 

 

Steve shoves him again in retaliation, both laughing. “How about this one?” Steve suggests, picking a box up off the shelf and examining the back of it. 

 

“Sure, Steve. They all look the same,” Bucky says, uninterested.

 

“All right, well, now you’re stuck with it.” Steve puts it in the cart next to the gallon of milk.

 

“Great. Can’t wait.”

 

“Shut up,” Steve laughs. 

 

Bucky smirks at him. “Just coffee, Steve.”

 

“It’s hard for me not to drink it now. I’ve become accustomed.” Steve shrugs, leaning on the cart’s handle as he walks forward.

 

“You’re a future man, Rogers. I’m so proud.” Bucky pretends to sniffle, wiping at his eyes. 

 

“You are such a jerk,” Steve admonishes teasingly. He ducks into the bread aisle to quickly snatch a loaf before returning to Bucky.

 

“I know, punk. You’re just too easy.” He flashes Steve a cheeky smile.

 

“Yeah whatever. Let’s go get some cereal.”

 

* * *

 

It was difficult to get to the compound using the subway, and Bucky and Steve ended up walking for quite awhile . The compound’s in a pretty secluded area in upstate New York, and it’s well into the afternoon by the time they get off the subway.

 

Steve had texted Tony while they were in the subway station, letting him know he and Bucky were on their way. He had been afraid that Tony wouldn’t like the fact that he’d brought Bucky along, but he was surprisingly calm about it.

 

Bucky’s been nervous all day, and he had kept his eyes on the ground the entire time they walked, quietly chatting with Steve.

 

Tony’s AI lets them in when they get there.

 

“He’s in his upstairs office,” FRIDAY tells them once they get inside.

 

“Thanks,” Steve responds, feeling a bit awkward to be talking to the air. He glances at Bucky as they ascend the stairs. “You gonna be okay?” he checks, lightly trailing his fingers along Bucky’s forearm.

 

Bucky looks at him through the corner of his eye. “Yeah. I’ll be fine.”

 

Steve nods a little, not pushing it further.

 

Tony’s office door is open, and Steve sees him bent over his desk, very focused on reading whatever’s in front of him. Steve knocks with his knuckles, and Tony’s head jerks up. 

 

“Come on in,” he says, voice lacking any emotion that’ll give away his thoughts.

 

“Thanks for finding the bag,” Steve starts off, stepping into the room. Bucky’s only a foot behind.

 

“Have a seat,” Tony offers, not looking up. “If you want.”

 

“Uh, sure.” He lowers himself down onto the brown loveseat taking up one of the walls. “Buck?” Steve scoots over and looks up at Bucky worriedly when he doesn’t sit down right away.

 

“No need to be so scared,” Tony tells him, rolling away from his desk with his wheeled chair so he’s closer to the couch. “Just here to give you your bag back. Maybe talk a little.”

 

Bucky takes a seat without a word.

 

Tony takes a small breath before talking. “I told you we signed the Accords,” he says. “I’m sorry, but they don’t apply to you. You’re not apart of the team anymore.”

 

Steve huffs a laugh under his breath. “Trust me, Tony. I’m aware. I let all that go when I dropped the shield.”

 

“You and your groupies are considered rogue now. You’re off the map for good. The tabloids have been going crazy.” Tony leans forward with his elbows resting on his thighs, watching for Steve’s reaction.

 

“I know. Look, Tony, I’m sorry, but we came for the bag. I know damn well what I caused when I stopped being Captain America.”

 

Bucky twitches beside him, trying not to fidget.

 

Tony’s face twists into something unreadable, and he backs up a little. “I never said you weren’t Captain America,” he sighs, running his hands through his hair.

 

“You’re right.  _ I _ said it. I gave up the shield because I didn’t sign the Accords and now I’m dealing with the aftermath of it.”

 

“Steve,” Bucky warns quietly beside him.

 

Steve immediately relaxes. “Sorry,” he says, backing down.

 

“That’s fine. I get it,” Tony tells him, glancing at Bucky. “So, uh, your bag? Had a lot of trouble getting it back from Ross, but...here it is.” He stands up, reaching behind his desk to pull out the black bag. “I signed a lot of shit for this, so I hope whatever’s in it is important.” He hands it off to Bucky before sitting back down with a sigh.

 

Bucky holds the backpack to his chest, breathing in deeply. Steve can easily tell how relieved he is to finally have it back, and the nagging thought of what’s in it lingers in the back of his mind.

 

“Thanks, Tony,” Steve says, watching Bucky fall apart over the bag. He reaches over and places his hand on Bucky’s knee, giving it a comforting squeeze. “We’ll get out of your hair now.”

 

“Ah,” Tony scoffs, slapping his hands down on his knees. “You guys weren’t in my hair, trust me. I’ve got paperwork up to my ears.” He smiles a little, glancing back at his desk. “But, I should probably get back to it.”

 

“No problem,” Steve says, standing up. Bucky follows, letting his backpack drop from his chest so it’s dangling from his hand.

 

Steve swallows, suddenly feeling awkward as he looks at Bucky’s empty sleeve; the sleeve that’s empty because of Tony. “See you around, Tony.” Steve runs his hand down Bucky’s spine until it’s resting in dip of the small of his back, leading him out of Tony’s office. 

 

“Let’s go home,” he murmurs as they walk back down the steps. “It’s been a long day.”

 

Bucky nods his agreement, his hand clenching tighter around the bag’s handle.

By the time they get back to the apartment, Bucky’s beat. 

 

Steve can tell by the hunch and slope of his shoulders, and the slow blink of his eyes. He never once loosens his hold on the bag. Even on the subway he had gone back to gripping it to his chest, Steve pressed to his left. 

 

“You want something to eat?” he offers after he slips his shoes off.

 

Bucky shakes his head no, already moving towards his bedroom.

 

“Okay,” Steve calls. “Just let me know if you need something.”

 

His only answer is the clear click of Bucky’s door shutting.

 

So Steve is a bit desperate, and he knows so. After last night’s breakthrough, he feels a bit left out. Bucky’s very obviously invested with the bag and whatever’s in it, and it makes Steve a little curious. He convinces himself he’s not  _ jealous  _ of the damn thing, but then again, maybe that is what he’s feeling about it.

 

He’ll let Bucky be, despite how badly inquisitive he is. If Bucky wants to share with him what’s so important, then he’ll tell him. He trusts Bucky. Always will.

 

He tries to let it go as he looks for something to eat. He hasn’t had lunch, and his metabolism is taunting him for it. He settles for an apple, taking a bite when he closes the fridge door. He jerks a little in surprise; Bucky’s right there, looking at him expectantly.

 

“Jeez, Buck,” Steve huffs out as a laugh. “You startled me.”

 

Bucky blinks at him, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I can see that.”

 

“Shut up. Whatcha need?” 

 

Bucky hesitates, eyes flicking to the apple in Steve’s hand. Steve raises his eyebrow. “Buck?”

 

“Uh,” he starts, looking back to Steve’s face. “Would you–” he laughs a little, nervous. “Would you help me shave, maybe?”

 

“Oh, yeah. Of course, Bucky,” Steve answers immediately, putting his apple down on the counter. “What do you need help with?”

 

“Just, um, the razor? I have trouble with just…” he trails off, his hand flicking to vaguely gesture to his left side.

 

“Yeah, yeah, come on. You can use mine,” Steve offers. 

 

“Thanks.” Bucky gives him a small smile as Steve places a hand on his shoulder, gently leading him to the bathroom.

 

Steve gets Bucky settled down on the closed toilet lid before he pulls out the shaving supplies from the cabinet. “Do you wanna use the electric razor first? Just to get most of it before going for a clean shave,” he explains, showing Bucky the electric one.

 

He eyes it cautiously. “You’ve used it before?” he asks, his gaze moving up to look at Steve.

 

“Yeah. Easier than these,” he says, picking at one of his disposable razors. “It doesn’t cut skin, only hair.”

 

Bucky takes a small, hitched breath. “Let’s just...start with that. Can we do a close shave another time?” 

 

Steve huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, whatever you want. It’s your choice.” He takes the razor’s cord and plugs it into the wall by the toilet tank. Bucky watches intently as he sits down on the toilet lid.

 

“Okay.”

 

Steve gives him a small smile as he shifts so he’s kneeling in front of him. He flicks the razor on and feels Bucky jerk at the first sound of the buzzing. “Hey,” he says softly, searching Bucky’s eyes. “We don’t have to do this.”

 

“No,” Bucky says immediately. “I want to.” He sounds pretty adamant, but Steve’s not so sure how this will turn out. Looks like he’s about to find out.

 

He raises the razor up to Bucky’s neck, right below his jawline, hovering for a few moments before pressing it against his skin. He moves up slowly, cataloguing how Bucky tenses. When the chunk of hair falls to the floor, Bucky finally unclenches his eyes, looking down at Steve with eyes barely open. Steve takes his free hand and runs his thumb over Bucky’s knuckles, which are gripping the edge of the toilet lid. 

 

“You all right?” he checks, just as Bucky’s hand loosens and goes to hold Steve’s hand instead.

 

He nods, the buzzing of the razor filling the silence. 

 

Steve starts shaving again. He keeps track of whenever Bucky flinches, and just squeezes his hand without looking away from his task. 

 

It takes a good 15 minutes before he’s done and can eventually put down the razor. Bucky breathes out a long, whooshing breath, untangling his hand from Steve’s to raise it to his cheek. It’s a closer shave than Steve expected, and he probably wouldn’t have had to break out the disposables anyway.

 

“Thanks, Steve,” Bucky mumbles, letting his hand fall back into his lap. He looks down at the hair littering the floor. “Sorry about that.”

 

Steve smiles, standing back up and fruitlessly kicking at the tufts to get them into some sort of pile. “Don’t worry about it. Easy to sweep. But I’ll clean it up later.”

 

Bucky’s lips purse a little before falling back into a straight line. “Okay.”

They end up on the couch together that night, with Bucky beside Steve, legs pressed together with some movie on that Steve’s not really paying attention to. He doesn’t think Bucky’s paying much attention either; at least, not anymore. 

 

He’s listed towards Steve, head lolling forward every now and then. Steve watches him blink slowly. 

 

“Tired?” he asks, a laugh on the edge of his words. 

 

Bucky answers by laying his head down on Steve’s shoulder. He hums shortly.

 

“Hang on,” Steve mutters. He taps Bucky’s bicep to warn him before leaning forward to grab the remote off the coffee table. Bucky reluctantly removes his head from Steve’s shoulder so he can turn the TV off.

 

“What’re you doin’?” he slurs as Steve settles back onto the couch.

 

“Thought we could just relax for a bit. S’nice to have a little quiet, don’t you think?” he says, watching as Bucky moves a bit farther down the couch to lay his head on Steve’s thigh. Steve chuckles, and Bucky lightly smacks his knee.

 

And so they sit. For a long time. Steve himself even drifts off for awhile; with the sound of Bucky’s breathing and the comfortable weight of him in Steve’s lap.

 

When he blinks his eyes open maybe an hour or two later, he decides he should probably move Bucky back into bed, but he can’t bring himself to wake him up.

 

Steve slowly and carefully scoops his hands under Bucky’s head and scoots out from underneath him before he can wake. He leans over Bucky, running his hand over the metal shoulder.

 

He must really be conked out; he normally would’ve been up like a shot by now. 

 

Steve manages to get his arms underneath him and lift upwards. Bucky’s a lot heavier than he thought he’d be. Heavier than he remembers. Bucky’s eyes blink open then, and he starts to shift and squirm.

 

“Hey, hey,” Steve murmurs. “Hang on. Just me.”

 

Bucky blinks again, groggy and slow. He takes his time comprehending Steve’s words before his eyes slip shut again.

 

Steve lets out a baited breath and starts moving towards Bucky’s room. He toes the door open and gently deposits Bucky on top of the covers.

 

The lamp is on next to them. Steve lowers himself beside the bed, watching the yellow light cast warm shadows across Bucky’s face. He lays his elbows on the bed, just as Bucky shifts onto his side, facing Steve.

 

His face is smooth and blank, carefree and unmarked while he sleeps.

 

Steve realizes that it’s probably creepy to be staring, and he flushes with self-embarrassment. He starts to stand up, when his knee lands on something. He quickly moves off of it when he hears it crinkle. He finds Bucky’s backpack under his leg, unzipped a few inches.

 

He swallows and quickly glances up at Bucky, who’s gratefully still asleep. He looks down at the bag again, and immediately shakes his head at himself. He’s being stupid. There’s absolutely no way he’s gonna violate Bucky’s privacy like that.

 

He reaches over to gently squeeze Bucky’s forearm before standing back up, scolding himself for even  _ thinking  _ about looking in the bag. It’s Bucky’s property, not for him to snoop around in.

 

He quietly shuffles out of the bedroom and towards his. He shuts the door with his foot as he pulls off his shirt, jeans coming off next. He slides under the covers, and falls asleep with thoughts of that damn bag, unzipped and nagging him.

It’s a muffled thump that wakes him up just three hours later. He sits up slowly, rising up on his elbows. He tries to listen for another noise, to make sure it wasn’t just in his head. There’s a few more seconds of silence before the sound of shattering glass has Steve up and struggling to get untangled from the covers.

 

He heads straight for Bucky’s room, not bothering to knock as he barges in. A mistake, he thinks, as he quickly falls to the floor to avoid the bullet headed right for his head. It hits the wooden door behind him instead, splintering and cracking. He breathes raggedly for a couple moments, cheek pressed to the hardwood. 

 

He chances a look up, and finds Bucky on the floor against the wall. He’s in a very open position; knees hanging outward and bent in, but the gun pointed at Steve’s face tells a different story.

 

“Bucky,” he says slowly, warily. He doesn’t rise, and the gun across from him doesn’t waver. “Buck, it’s just me. Steve.” 

 

He gets up carefully, maintaining eye contact the entire time. Bucky’s eyes are hard and empty, staring Steve down. He shifts closer, crouched down on one knee as he reaches over to take the gun from Bucky’s hand.

 

He gently tugs it out of his hand, and Bucky thankfully lets him. He sets it over on the bed and turns back to Bucky, his eyes now downcast. Steve catches his bottom lip quiver a bit before he hoarsely whispers, “Sorry.” 

 

Steve quickly moves forward to embrace him. Bucky leans on him willingly, limp and pliant. “I’m sorry,” he says again. “I’m sorry.” 

 

Steve quietly shushes him, rubbing a hand up and down his back. “Don’t do that to yourself, Buck,” he tells him. “It’s not your fault.”

 

Bucky lets out a sob over Steve’s shoulder, his arm finally wrapping around Steve’s bare back. “I almost shot you,” he chokes out, rocking forward into Steve’s arms.

 

“But you didn’t. I’m right here. It’s okay.” He rests his cheek on top of Bucky’s head as he curls up into Steve’s chest. 

 

Bucky shakes his head, but doesn’t say anything after. 

 

“What happened, Buck?” Steve asks. He feels Bucky’s hand ball into a fist against his back. “Hey,” he says softly.

 

Bucky moves back a little, looking at Steve mournfully.

 

“Let’s just go back to bed,” he suggests, and then Bucky’s right back where he was, basically in Steve’s lap.

 

“Please, no,” he manages, muffled against Steve’s chest.

 

“Come to my room,” Steve offers, moving his thumb up and down the knobs in Bucky’s spine.

 

Bucky keeps silent, so he takes it as a yes.

 

“Come on,” Steve urges, shifting to stand up.

 

Bucky moves with him, eventually being forced to let go of Steve to get to his feet. “Are you sure?” he asks timidly. 

  
  
“Yeah, Buck. Of course.” Steve wraps an arm around Bucky’s waist and starts to lead him to his room. Bucky stumbles along next to him, leaning into his touch.

 

He lets Bucky get into bed first, watching as he slowly crawls under the blankets. Steve closes the door before joining him. He gets in on the other side, and they’re facing each other, both on their sides. 

 

“You okay?” he checks, searching Bucky’s eyes.

 

“No,” Bucky murmurs, then, “I’m sorry, Steve.”

 

Steve gathers him into his arms again, the top of his head pressed underneath Steve’s jaw. “You’ll be all right,” he promises, nosing down at Bucky’s hair, smelling just like his shampoo.

 

Bucky reaches over with his legs and tangles them with Steve’s, clearly searching out as much human touch as possible. “It’s the dreams,” he says after a moment.

 

Steve’s breathing catches. And after a few moments of silence, “Buck?”

 

“They’re so  _ bad,  _ Stevie,” he confesses, desperately clutching onto Steve. “I just–I remember so  _ much.  _ Too much.” 

 

Steve’s mouth opens slightly in shock, obviously not prepared for what Bucky was going to say. He leans back a little so he can snake his hands up to Bucky’s face. He thumbs away the few tears that have fallen. “You’re safe now, you know that, right?” he asks, concern lacing his voice.

 

There’s a beat of nothing, then Bucky’s nodding. “Sorry, Steve. I know, I just–” He breathes in and tightens his arm around Steve’s midsection. “M’shoulder hurts,” he mumbles, shifting slightly. “Can we move?”

 

“Yeah, yeah, let me–” But Bucky’s already moving on his own, flipping onto his right side so his back is to Steve. “Oh.” He has to bite down the urge to laugh at how ridiculous this is. Definitely a bad time to be laughing, but him and Bucky are spooning, and for some odd reason he finds it hilarious.

 

Bucky, however, knows him a little too well, even through years and years of brainwashing, and he elbows Steve in the ribs. “Don’t say anything,” he says, positioning himself into something more comfortable.

 

His hair tickles Steve’s nose and chin, but he gets distracted when Bucky gently headbutts him. “C’mon, Rogers. That’s not how you spoon a lady.”

 

Steve snorts at that, but obligingly lays his hand over Bucky’s stomach. Bucky hums in satisfaction. “You’re such a jerk,” he says.

 

“Punk,” Bucky mutters.


	4. Chapter 4

“Let’s go somewhere today,” Steve suggests, spatula scraping at the bacon in the pan in front of him.

 

Bucky’s head pops up from where he’s splayed out on the couch. He blinks.

 

“Come on. We could go downtown. They’ve got all kinds of new stores.” He shrugs one shoulder half-heartedly. “Just take a walk, even.”

 

He hears Bucky sigh—a bit too dramatically, he thinks. 

 

“We haven’t left the apartment in days, Bucky.” He flips another piece of bacon, and it sizzles with grease.

 

“That’s ‘cause it’s cold out, Steve,” he says, sitting up so he can look at Steve over the back of the couch. 

 

“There’s these cool things called jackets, nowadays.” Bucky glares at him, and Steve responds with a short laugh. “I’m sick of bein’ cooped up here. Let’s just go for a small walk.”

 

Bucky hums, uncaring. 

* * *

 

They do end up going downtown after their big breakfast, despite Bucky’s grumbling and pathetic excuses.

 

Together they wind their way through the streets of Brooklyn, occasionally popping into stores now and then. They easily make their way down the crowded sidewalk, bumping their shoulders together and chatting with their heads bent.

 

Bucky stops walking, but Steve doesn’t realize until he’s a few steps ahead. He backtracks, watching Bucky stare into the store window with a confused expression.

 

Steve looks to where Bucky’s gaze falls. The store window has an array of Captain America and Iron Man themed merchandise. T-shirts, pillows, jewelry. He knows the minute he looks what it is Bucky’s baffled by.

 

“What’s that?” Bucky asks, stepping closer to the window. 

 

Steve follows, a small smile on his face. “It’s a Bucky Bear,” he tells him, taking in the small teddy bear with it’s blue coat and black mask, staring back at them with beady button eyes.

 

“A Bucky Bear,” Bucky deadpans, unamused.

 

Steve huffs out a laugh. “Yeah. It’s cute, right?” He glances at Bucky, who’s frowning at the small bear. “They started making ‘em during the war. They got real popular when Captain America did.”

 

Bucky licks his lips, not taking his eyes off of it.

 

“Let’s go get one,” Steve suggests, wrapping a hand around Bucky’s bicep.

 

“No, Steve,” he grunts, pulling back. “It’s stupid.”

 

Steve stops, letting his hand slide off of Bucky’s arm. He knows he probably looks like a kicked puppy—Sam’s told him multiple times what affect his face has on people—but he’s always loved those damned bears. He remembers seeing a little girl with one, after he woke up. He had been on his morning run, and he’d stopped dead in his tracks seeing that familiar furry face in the hands of a young child.

 

He’d cut his run short to go back to his strange new apartment. He hadn't met Sam yet, and he’d been going through his rounds of dangerous  _ why should I even try  _ thoughts.

 

But here, with Bucky, he’s never been happier.

 

Bucky sighs wearily. “What’s the big deal, Steve?”

 

Steve pauses, flashing back to how that one bear had triggered him so much. “Nothing,” he manages. “They’re just...cute, you know?” He smiles hopefully.

 

Bucky continues to look at Steve, searching his face. Steve knows Bucky knows he’s hiding something, they’ve known each other since they were in grade school, but Steve knows it’s all over when Bucky’s lip twitches upward.

 

“Fine,” he relents. “Let’s go get your dumb bear.”

 

Steve’s smile brightens, and he drags Bucky inside the shop.

 

Bucky clutches it in his hand the entire way home.

 

* * *

Steve gets a text from an unknown number the next day.

 

_ Meet me at 8 outside the starbucks by your apartment. Bring barnes if you want. _

 

Steve stares at the message for a few moments.  _ Natasha.  _ Steve scratches at one of his eyebrows, staring at his phone. Coffee at night? Sounds like Nat.

 

He’s sitting at the island counter, leaning over his phone with a cup of coffee in his other hand. Bucky’s sprawled out on the couch behind him, watching some show on conspiracy theories or something like that. Steve steals a glance at him.

 

He’s leaning more on his left side, using his hand to hold a mug of coffee. The whorls of steam lift up and into his face when he holds it under his chin before taking a sip, highlighting his mild bed head.

 

Steve closes his eyes. He should text Nat back.

 

_ Sounds good. _

 

“Hey, Buck?” he calls.

 

Bucky grunts, acknowledging that he’s listening but not alert enough to actually say something.

 

“Uh, Natasha wants to meet up later. You know Nat?” 

 

“Yeah. I do,” he replies, shifting to sit up. He sets his coffee down on the glass table with a soft clank. “She wants to meet up? Why?”

 

Steve shrugs. “Dunno. Didn’t say. But, uh, you wanna come? You don’t have to, I just…”

 

“I don’t think so,” Bucky says quietly. Steve’s heart does this weird, achey thing. Bucky seems to notice. “Sorry, Steve. I’m just, not in the mood to see people today, you know?”

 

Steve nods. Boy does he know. “No problem. I get it.”

 

“She probably doesn’t wanna see me anyway,” Bucky says next, quieter.

 

“What?” Steve responds first, taken aback. “Why?”

 

Bucky shrugs nonchalantly, trying to play it off. “Dunno. Nevermind,” he mumbles, slouching back down into the couch. He snatches his coffee back and cradles it to his chest.

 

Steve keeps silent. He doesn’t need to push Bucky any further.

He leaves at 7:45. Bucky’s moved on to his room, the door shut and locked.

 

Steve doesn’t know the damage, but it’s obvious him and Nat have some sort of history. He’s not sure he wants to know. But whatever it is, Bucky’s not too excited for Steve to go and meet up with her.

 

She’s his friend, though, so he leaves Bucky in his room.

 

He gets to Starbucks just before 8:00, and stands with his head down, chin tucked against his chest and his hands jammed into his pockets. His well-worn baseball cap is low over his eyes, and he tries to stand as non-threateningly as possible up by the scratchy, tan, stucco wall of the building.

 

He barely recognizes Natasha as she confidently strides up to him. He glances up at her and is forced to do a minuscule double take. 

 

She’s got sandy blonde hair now, and with all the different shades intertwined and mixed together it looks natural. It’s straight and swinging just above her shoulders. Her eyes are blue now, and she’s bundled in a knitted red sweater.

 

He smiles when he catches sight of her, pushing off the wall and going in for a hug. She winds her arms around his neck and kisses his cheek. “Rogers,” she murmurs in a friendly greeting.

 

“Nat,” he breathes out as they pull apart. “It’s good to see you.”

 

She offers him a hint of a smile on her pink lips. “You too.” She takes a moment to gesture with her head towards the building. “Let’s go inside, yeah?”

 

He nods, follows her through the door and the warm blast of air that follows. She leads him to a booth in the back, away from any windows and far enough from the doors. He sits down across from her and she reaches over to take both his large, calloused hands in her thin and nimble ones.

 

“How’ve you been doing?” she asks first, searching his eyes. She squeezes his hands. “And don’t lie to me. You know that shit won’t work on me.”

 

Steve’s lips twitch up. “I know,” he says softly. “I’m doing better,” he tells her honestly, flashing back to when he was alone and didn’t even have the energy to get out of bed.

 

Nat hums. “And Barnes?”

 

Steve can’t help but smile, despite himself. “We’re helping each other.” 

 

“You’re so wrapped up with him,” she notes lightly, pulling her hands back to settle crossed in front of her. Steve brings his hands into his lap.

 

“It’s just nice to have him back, you know?” He shrugs. He knows Nat would never  _ really  _ understand. Not truly. She doesn’t let people get close to her. Doesn’t have someone like Steve has Bucky.

 

She nods anyway. “75 years is a long time to be away from someone,” she says.

 

Steve swallows, nods. Too long, he thinks, jerking his head when a movement beside him catches his eye. It’s just a teenage girl gesturing widely and excitedly to her friend a few tables over. He hears them both laugh. 

 

“Have you heard from T’Challa lately?” Nat asks, briskly changing the subject.

 

Steve raises his eyes to give her a puzzled look. “No. Why?”

 

“He said he wanted to talk to you and your team about heading out to Wakanda.”

 

“You’ve been talking to T’Challa?” Steve asks skeptically.

 

She shrugs, brushing him off. “I keep tabs on everyone. I talk to the ones I like.”

 

“And what’s this about my team?” 

 

Natasha sighs, as if the meager two questions Steve’s asked her is too much of a burden to give him more answers. “Wilson, Barton, Maximoff, Barnes. You. The ones that aren’t apart of the Accords.”

 

“What’s he want with us?”

 

“I’m not sure. My guess is to start up a new team.” Nat starts a staccato of tapping with her sharp nails on the plastic table top. “You should take it. I know you, and you can’t live without a fight.”

 

Steve inhales slowly, feeling a sharp stab of anger. “I’ve been doing pretty well so far, I think,” he responds, consciously trying not to add the bitter edge to his voice.

 

Nat shakes her head. “You’re okay with Barnes, I’ll give you that, but when you’re alone you fall into a hole. Sam tells me when you’re in too deep. And you were definitely not doing well before James came out of cryo.” She raises an eyebrow at him, prompting him to argue with her.

 

“I don’t need a fight to survive,” he insists.

 

“You have too much energy,” Nat continues. “The fight’s where you let all of that anger out. It’s not healthy, sure, but it’s better than letting all that anger and energy build up inside until you can’t function.”

 

Steve averts his eyes down to his hands, sitting limp on his thighs. “I can handle myself,” he says finally.

 

“I know,” Nat tells him. “Do you want some coffee?”

 

Steve gives her a tired smile.

He heads back to the apartment later than he thought he would. It’s just past 9:30 when he slips through the door.

 

He finds Bucky curled up on the floor with his arm on the couch. His head is resting in the crook of his elbow, and when Steve gets closer he can see that he’s asleep, eyes closed and breathing even.

 

His lips quirk into a small smile as he watches Bucky’s soft and serene expression. His eyes catch sight of the papers strewn across the coffee table in front of him. He spies at least two notebooks in the mess of loose leaf papers and pens.

 

One notebook on top catches his gaze. The pen is just underneath the open page, marking the next one. But it’s the haphazardly written paragraphs on  _ this  _ page that make his breath catch. 

 

The writing is messy and the format is confusing. Chunks of paragraphs are in no order, and short sentences are speckled here and there across the page.

 

He doesn’t mean to read it, but once he takes a look he can’t stop himself.

 

_ Trust Steve. He won’t hurt you. _

 

_ Steve wore newspapers in his shoes. They were too big for him. _

 

_ Becca?–Sister, maybe? _

 

_ Stevie. Punk. _

 

_ There was a train. It was cold and windy and I was freezing. Steve was there. That’s when I fell. I couldn’t hold onto the rail much longer.  _

 

_ I was always cold. Cold tables. Cold rooms. My arm was numb, sometimes freezing. I still shiver sometimes. It’s involuntary.  _ ~~_ Keep it from Steve. _ ~~

 

_ You can trust Steve. _

 

Steve stops then, staring down at the page with a sick feeling in his stomach. He definitely should not be reading this. He quickly glances at Bucky, still asleep and unassuming. He bites his lip, and his eyes slide back to the notebook.

 

_ I think I killed JFK. And Howard Stark. _

 

_ Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, 107th, 32557038. Howling Commandos. Captain America. Azzano. _

 

_ March 10th, 1917. _

 

_ July 4th, 1918. I don’t think Steve’s a real captain. _

 

_ Sarah Rogers. Nurse. _

 

_ BROOKLYN. _

 

_ Arnim Zola. Bright lights. Sharp pains in left arm. _

 

Steve swallows, kneeling down beside the coffee table. He reaches over to flip to the next page, where the black pen is sitting. The ink is glistening and obviously recently written. He spots his name a lot more on this page by quickly skimming through.

 

_ Little Stevie Rogers. Always has a death wish. At least he’s big now. Doesn’t stop him from being fucking reckless. Fucking punk. _

 

_ Visiting Tony was hard on him. I can’t look him in the eye. I remember Howard begging. He said my name. _

 

_ Steve doesn’t care about the murders. Sometimes I wish he would. _

 

_ The nightmares are getting worse. Mostly the train in the Alps and Zola’s experiments. Steve makes it better. _

 

_ I’m with you til the end of the line. _

 

~~_ Were Steve and I _ ~~

 

_ Does Steve know? _

 

Steve hesitates. Were him and Bucky what? Does Steve know what? His eyebrows furrow, his thumb stroking the corner of the page as he stares at the couple lines before continuing on.

 

_ I feel weird whenever I’m with Steve. Good weird. He’s okay with lots of contact.  _ ~~_ I can’t help but think _ ~~

 

_ I can’t stop thinking about the things I can’t remember. Is Steve keeping something from me? Something about us? _

 

~~_ Am I  _ ~~

 

~~_ I don’t think I’m _ ~~

 

_ But there were all those dames before the war. Was I faking?  _

 

_ I can’t remember but I think I might be starting to.  _

 

_ I don’t think Steve knows.  _ ~~_ He doesn’t feel the same. _ ~~

 

_ I get confused.  _

 

_ I like it when he smiles.  _

 

_ Like sunshine. _

 

Steve blinks, the words and lines blurring together. He rereads as much as he can, trying to make some sense of Bucky’s writing. His lungs tighten, and it reminds him of all those times back in the 20’s and 30’s and even the early 40’s when his asthma wouldn’t let him breathe properly. Like two bags of sand sitting heavy in his chest.

 

Of course, his breathing is just fine now, if a bit shallow. Maybe he’s reading into this wrong.

 

_ Nothing happened during the war, or before. I’m pretty sure, at least. There’s a high chance I could be wrong, but Steve hasn’t brought anything up. _

 

_ Steve tells me the future is different, and I had a hard time believing him at first, but I saw these girls on the subway. They were holding hands and they kissed, like lovers, not friends. _

_   
_ _ It’s not as bad anymore. They use the word gay instead of fairy or queer. _

 

_ I’m still scared. _

 

Oh.

 

Steve stares at Bucky, curled up half on the floor and half on the couch.

 

And that’s when he sees the black backpack by his feet, unzipped. A stone settles in Steve’s stomach. A stone made of pure guilt. 

 

His whole world just  _ flips.  _

 

He doesn’t end up sleeping that night; tosses and turns as his brain does the exact same thing in overdrive. He can’t even  _ comprehend _ what he had just learned. It absolutely baffles him. And he doesn’t even  _ think _ to figure out his own feelings.

* * *

 

 

The thing he doesn’t realize, is how much his view of Bucky would change, especially when Bucky acts like he always does. Which was inevitable, Steve thinks. Bucky is oblivious to the raging storm of confusion in his head.

 

Steve opens his bedroom door in the morning and tries to make a break for the bathroom, but Bucky’s too fast.

 

“Steve,” he says, trying to get his attention and coming up to him from the living room. Steve inadvertently flinches, and Bucky’s smile falls. “Steve?” he repeats, quiet and cautious.

 

“Uh, sorry,” Steve stammers, avoiding eye contact. “I was just heading to the shower. Whatcha need?” He chances a glance at Bucky’s face, but it only makes him feel worse. Bucky’s face is a mixture of confusion and pain and wariness.

 

“Nothing,” Bucky murmurs, turning around dejectedly and immediately shutting himself inside his room.

 

Steve sighs and continues his path to the bathroom. He locks the door behind him and strips, feeling itchy in his own skin.

 

It’s just Bucky, he tells himself. Nothing’s changed. 

 

_ Except now you’re hyper aware of the fact that your best friend of 90 years is in love with you. _

 

Fuck.

 

Steve arranges the temperature of the water to his liking before stepping in, reveling in the relaxing stream hitting his back and making his muscles melt.

 

Bucky’s just Bucky. Always has been. 

 

Except that Steve has finally enlightened himself by snooping in Bucky’s private stuff. 

 

He looks back on everything that might’ve brought Bucky to think of him like–

 

Like he does. More than friends.

 

He thinks back on that one night with Bucky’s nightmare. How they had fallen asleep together. How close they had gotten when he had helped Bucky shave. How Bucky had smiled and looked at Steve when they went out to the diner—the first real talk they’d had since before Bucky went back into cryo. Even the way Bucky looks at him, Steve realizes; it’s bright and full of compassion and what Steve now figures is  _ love. _

 

Up until now he’d thought they were just close friends. But that’s how people in close  _ relationships  _ act with each other. Sam and him don’t act even remotely close to it. 

 

Steve closes his eyes and presses his forehead against the cool tile of the shower, trying to stave off the raging headache threatening to emerge.

 

Everything is just  _ spinning.  _

 

He finishes his shower while resolutely trying not to think about–

 

About  _ it.  _

 

Bucky’s bedroom door is still firmly shut, and Steve scolds himself over and over again.

 

Bucky’ll be able to spot something wrong with Steve from 50 miles away. He needs to act  _ normal.  _ Like he  _ didn’t  _ snoop through Bucky’s backpack and find out that he’s in love with him.

 

Steve needs to stop thinking about it all together. He needs to just fucking  _ forget about it  _ before he royally screws up.

 

He sighs and puts his elbows down on the counter, setting his head into the dark cave his arms create on the countertop. The dark and silence is welcome, blocking out his problems. He arches his back and stretches his spine outwards, spending a few seconds in the position until he picks up a soft shuffling behind him.

 

“Uh, Steve?”

 

Even though Steve knows he’s there, he flinches and turns around.

 

Bucky’s eyebrows are furrowed, in confusion and anger. 

 

“Sorry, Buck–” Steve starts, voice crackling and raspy.

 

“No,” Bucky interrupts, voice hard. “What’s  _ with  _ you today?” His voice is quiet, but Steve thinks that makes it so much worse. “What did I do to you?” Steve watches as Bucky’s only hand clenches around the phone hanging at his side.

 

He continues to stare at the lit screen of Bucky’s phone instead of making eye contact. He doesn’t answer.

 

_"_ _Rogers!"_  Bucky snaps, louder this time. 

 

Steve jerks his head up immediately. Bucky’s jaw is clenched tight, obviously angry. His eyes stare holes right into Steve’s soul, bright and mad. Steve’s always been able to easily read Bucky, like a book, but maybe not so easily as of lately.

 

Bucky’s eyes show concern, hurt,  _ sad.  _ And anger, just less. His mouth is a set line as he stares Steve down.

 

“Um, I–” he stammers, staring at Bucky’s lips. “I just–I didn’t mean–” He tries to take a moment, to compose his thoughts before he can turn them into actual words that will make an actual sentence. “Sorry,” he mutters, casting his gaze to the floor to stare at Bucky’s socked feet.

 

“Steve,” Bucky says, much softer. And when Steve doesn’t respond, he repeats himself more empathetically. “ _ Steve. _ ”

 

Steve looks up, sees Bucky’s gentler facial expression and body language. 

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

Steve shakes his head and looks down and off to the side again. “Nothin’,” he says, and he knows it sounds unconvincing.

 

Bucky glares at him.

 

Steve shrugs. “I just...I’ve been having a rough day. I don’t know why. It’s stupid.”

 

“Oh, Stevie.” Then he pulls Steve in for a hug.

 

Steve lets it happen, does his part and wraps his arms around Bucky too. Then he thinks about what he saw in the notebook, and surprises himself by holding Bucky even tighter.

 

“Sorry,” he repeats, voice muffled by Bucky’s shoulder. “I was being an ass.”

 

Bucky laughs and pulls back, shoving teasingly at him. “Sorry I yelled at you for being an ass, then.”

 

“Yeah, well, I don’t blame you,” Steve tells him. 

 

Bucky smiles tentatively, then seems to remember he’s still holding his phone, lifting it slightly and glancing at it. “Oh, uh, hate to ruin the moment, but…” He offers Steve his phone, and Steve takes it after a beat of worry.

 

Bucky’s got a _People_ magazine article pulled up on his phone. The first page is the cover, and Steve can very clearly see his own face gracing it. It’s him and Bucky out on the sidewalk. He only realizes now how ridiculously close they were, and feels himself flush. 

 

He’s been really  _ oblivious. _

 

Bucky’s holding his stuffed bear in the picture, held down in between his and Steve’s hips. The title reads:  _ CAPTAIN AMERICA SPOTTED IN BROOKLYN WITH WINTER SOLDIER? _

 

Steve sighs. “That’s not good.”

 

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees. “I’ve realized.”

 

Steve chews on his bottom lip, staring at the picture. “What should we do?”

 

“Lay low for a few days,” Bucky suggests. “Then be more careful about going out in public.” He shrugs. “That’s all we can do for now.”

 

Steve nods. “Right. You’re right.”

 

Bucky smiles, all the previous tension dissipated. “Of course I’m right. When am I not?”

 

Steve huffs, handing back the phone. “Don’t be so modest, Buck.”

 

Bucky just smiles his cheeky, familiar smile.


	5. Chapter 5

Steve’s phone goes off at buttfuck o’ clock. And it goes off  _ loud.  _

 

He jolts up onto his elbows from where he had been laying on his stomach, blinking fast. He looks to his phone buzzing and making a general racket on his nightstand. He fumbles for it, unplugging it as he clumsily snatches it off the table and brings it towards his ear. He lays back down as he answers it, closing his eyes.

 

“‘Lo?” he manages to croak out.

 

“Captain Rogers?” a voice responds cautiously. 

 

Steve can’t decipher who the voice belongs to at first, and he didn’t bother checking the caller ID before blindly picking up. He lets the accent linger in his mind for a few moments before figuring it out.

 

“T’Challa?”

 

“Yes. Is this a bad time?” 

 

“No, no,” Steve mumbles, then, “well. It’s the middle of the night here, so I don’t know what you want to call bad timing, but that might be it.” Steve pries his eyes open to look at the clock.

 

2:27. No thanks.

 

“Oh, my apologies, Captain,” T’Challa says, sounding genuinely sorry. “The time zone change completely slipped my mind. I can call you back at a better time,” he offers.

 

“Now is fine. You’ve already got ahold of me.” Steve braces himself for a conversation where he’ll need to sound at least halfway intelligent.

 

“I’m afraid it’s quite important. You might need to be more awake to discuss it,” T’Challa explains.

 

Steve tries to muffle a yawn unsuccessfully. “Right, of course. It’s up to you.”

 

“Sorry to have bothered your sleep, Captain.” 

 

“No worries,” Steve assures him. “And call me Steve.”

 

“Good night then, Steve,” T’Challa says. He doesn’t give Steve a chance to reply before there’s a brief click. 

 

Steve sighs and coordinately puts his phone back on his nightstand. He pulls the covers over his head and tries to fall back asleep. He manages to keep his eyes closed for a good five minutes before snapping them back open again, aggravated.

 

Fuck the fucking serum. He wants to be able to sleep in and not have his body reject the very thought of some extra shuteye after four whole healthy hours.

 

He reluctantly slips out of the warm cocoon of sheets he’s made himself and pads to the kitchen wearing nothing but his pajama pants. He shivers at the unexpected cool air, but doesn’t bother to put a shirt on.

 

Coffee is hot. Coffee will help.

 

He traipses over to the new coffee machine and pours the grounds sitting next to it into the filter. Water goes in next before he places the pot in. He stares longingly as the machine beeps, and the little timer on it flashes a neon green 10. Steve’s actually surprised by that. Not as long as he thought. 

 

He’s become too attached. But man, isn’t modern technology efficient.

 

He turns around to head over to the couch, but Bucky’s standing at the mouth of the hallway, staring at him. Steve suddenly feels very exposed without a shirt on. He scratches the back of his neck as Bucky continues to look.

 

“Uh, you need somethin’?” he asks.

 

Bucky blinks, looking disheveled. His hair is a complete mess, frizzy strands covering up his eyes. He’s got on one of his own thermal shirts—the left sleeve in a knot under his metal stump—and boxers. The one’s with the purple Hawkeye symbols plastered all over them. 

 

“Uh, no,” he mumbles, sounding decidedly unsure.

 

“Coffee?” he offers, knowing Bucky would never turn down a good cup of coffee. “Should be ready in about 10.”

 

He gives Steve a shadow of a smile before shuffling over to the couch. “Thanks,” he says quietly as Steve comes over to join him. “What’re you doing up?” 

 

He sits at one end of the couch, facing Steve as he takes up the other armrest. They easily tangle their legs together. Steve sighs, but smiles all the same. “T’Challa called,” he tells him. “Forgot about the time difference.”

 

Bucky chuckles lowly. “Why not go back to bed then?”

 

Steve shrugs uselessly. “No point, I guess.” He eyes Bucky over. “You?”

 

Bucky immediately looks down, smile drifting off his face. “Nightmares,” he murmurs, like the word’s being wrenched from him. 

 

Steve leans forward a bit to place a hand on Bucky’s calf. “You all right?” he checks.

 

Bucky doesn’t say anything back, but his eyes do flick up to look at Steve. Just not in the eye. More in the pectoral region.

 

Steve feels himself flush hot.

 

“M’fine. M’good,” he mumbles, looking back down again at his own lap.

 

Steve knows the words are just lies tumbling out of his mouth, but he doesn’t know why Bucky still feels the need to lie to him. It doesn’t settle right in his chest. “You wanna watch something maybe?” he suggests, reaching over to grab the remote from the coffee table. “I think that show about how they make stuff is on. You like that one, right?”

 

Bucky looks up at Steve again—in the eye this time—and nods, his lips turned upwards. “Yeah, punk. You know me too well.”

 

And so they sit, legs entwined while listening to the soft and gentle drone of the narrator on TV. Steve’s eyes are more on Bucky than the show, watching as his eyes seem to light up with interest as the show progresses. It doesn’t last too long, though. Steve watches, amused, as Bucky nearly drifts off only 7 minutes in, but he manages to snap himself out of it in time, head jerking upwards and eyes flicking open. Steve frowns, lightly kicking at the inside of Bucky’s thigh where his foot rests.

 

Bucky blinks at him, then looks down at his foot. “Coffee,” he mumbles.

 

“Maybe you should go back to bed,” he offers, concerned.

 

Bucky shakes his head adamantly. “This is good,” he says, a small, dazed smile on his face.

 

“You’re tired,” Steve insists, but he knows it’s a lost cause. Bucky is one stubborn son of a bitch.

 

“Observant, you are,” Bucky replies, sarcasm covering his words like a thick blanket. Steve watches him with concern. “I’m not going back to sleep,” he says more seriously. “I can’t.”

 

Steve nods in understand. “Okay,” he says softly. “That’s okay.” 

 

The coffee machine beeps loudly in the kitchen, a harsh, loud sound. Steve slips his legs out of Bucky’s, and brushes his hand across his shoulder when he passes. The pot is emitting whirls of steam when he gets to the kitchen. He grabs two mugs from the cupboard and distributes the boiling coffee between them. He brings them back to the couch, handing one off to Bucky before settling down again.

 

“Thanks,” Bucky mumbles into his cup as he takes a cautious sip. He hums with content.

 

Steve laughs. “Better than how it used to be, huh?” Steve says, taking a drink and savouring the hot, bitter sting.

 

“All I remember is lukewarm sludge,” Bucky agrees. 

 

Steve smiles warmly at him, watching him over the rim of his coffee mug.

 

“What?” Bucky asks, staring at him curiously.

 

Steve shakes his head, still smiling. He takes a sip to give himself an extra second of not responding. “Nothing. I just...miss this. You know?” He looks intently at their entwined legs. “I remember doing stuff exactly like this before the war. It’s nice to have a little familiarity.”

 

Bucky avoids eye contact, looking wistful as he watches his own feet by Steve’s legs. “Yeah, I remember,” he tells him. “You were a little smaller then,” he notes, a small smile creeping on the edge of his lips. “Used to fit right up under my shoulder.”

 

“Shut up,” Steve mutters, lightly swinging his foot back and forth so it hits against Bucky’s leg. He flushes when Bucky smiles at him. 

 

He tries not to think about Bucky’s notebook.

 

* * *

Steve’s checking the news on his phone when it buzzes and chimes in his hands, diverting his attention. He exits out of the website to answer when he sees the unfamiliar number flash across the screen, already knowing who it is.

 

“Hello,” he says, voice rough and crackly. He clears it.

 

“Captain Rogers.”

 

“T’Challa,” Steve replies, scratching at the back of his head. “What’s up?”

 

“I’m hoping this is a better time?” he checks.

 

“Yes, much better.”

 

“I called you to see if you’re willing to travel to Wakanda once more. I’m arranging a meet-up with many of the ex-Avengers. The ones not under rule of the UN.”

 

Steve chews on his lip, staring at his fingers clenched into a fist on the counter top. He forces himself to relax them. “Why?” he asks. Then, "If you’re willing to tell me.”

 

T’Challa chuckles on the other line. “Of course, Captain.”

 

“Steve,” he corrects, feeling a jab of despite at being called Captain. Last time he checked, he wasn’t. “Call me Steve.”

 

“Right, my apologies, Steve,” T’Challa says. “Over the phone is not a good place to talk about it, but I will tell you, the meeting is important. About the Avengers. I’ve already rounded up quite a few of your friends.”

 

“Really?” Steve says, thinking of Sam, then casting a quick look down the hall at Bucky’s closed door. “Right, well,” he laughs humorlessly, “it’s not like I’m doing anything important anymore.”

 

There’s a beat of silence, then, “My team will send a jet to arrive on Saturday. I will text you the rest of the details,” he says. “Good luck, Steve.”

 

There’s a deafening click, signaling the end of the call. Steve sets his phone screen-down on the shiny granite surface. Going to Wakanda’s probably not the best idea right now, but if it’s as important as T’Challa claims it to be, he doesn’t think he could turn it down.

 

The thing is, he thought he was out of the game. After what happened with Tony, he thought he’d been safe for good. Bucky was back, they had their own apartment, things were good. Steve has a feeling that whatever T’Challa needs him for, he needs Captain America more.

 

He resigns himself to going, glancing over to Bucky’s bedroom door. His phone buzzes again just as he’s getting up, but when he quickly checks what it is, it’s just the address details from T’Challa. 

 

He lightly knocks on Bucky’s door with a single knuckle, pocketing his phone. Bucky responds with a muffled, “Come in.” Steve walks in slowly, cautiously opening the door and checking inside before stepping into the room.

 

Bucky’s sitting at the head of his bed against his array of pillows. He’s got a book held open with his hand, resting on his ankles where he’s sitting cross-legged. He watches Steve close the door behind him.

 

“You up to talk?” he asks, meandering closer to the bed.

 

Bucky shrugs, tossing the book to the side before motioning Steve closer with his hand. “Come closer. Sit down. Just don’t stand there.”

 

Steve moves to the side of the bed before taking a seat. A brief look to the door makes something sink in his gut. The wood is still heavily splintered from when Bucky nearly shot him, and the bullet is most likely still firmly lodged in the door. He looks back to Bucky, trying to hide his wandering eyes.

 

“Uh, so T’Challa called again,” he starts off.

 

Bucky raises his eyebrows. “Yeah? What’d he say?”

 

Steve nervously rubs at his thigh. “He wants us to travel to Wakanda. I think he wants to create another team. Like the Avengers, but...not.” He cringes slightly. 

 

Bucky’s brow creases. “Are you sure you want to get back into that?” Bucky questions. 

 

Steve pauses, unsure of how to answer. “Sure,” he answers with a shrug. “I mean. It’s familiar.”

 

Bucky frowns. “But do you like it?”

 

The question catches him off guard. No one’s really asked him that before. He doesn’t know what to say. “Uh, yeah,” he decides on. “Of course.” He doesn’t know if that’s true.

 

Looks like Bucky doesn’t know that either. “Clearly,” he says sarcastically. He reaches over to put his hand on Steve’s knee. “You know you don’t have to go.”

 

Steve nods, watching as Bucky slides his hand off of his leg before placing it in his own lap. “I know, but I’m not even sure what T’Challa wants yet. I think it’d be good to go and talk with him.”

 

“Okay,” Bucky says. Steve can see him mulling over his words. 

 

“He wants you to come too,” Steve tells him. “You don’t have to.”

 

“Neither do you,” he fires back, then looks down and away. “But I’ll come with you. I always do.”

 

Steve smiles softly. “Thanks, Buck. I’m sure T’Challa will appreciate it.”

 

“So when are we going?”

 

“Saturday morning. Why? You got plans?” Steve offers a cheeky smile, while Bucky glares.

 

“Have to plan accordingly,” he says, stretching his legs out as he leans against the headboard. “I’m a busy guy, Steve.”

 

“Right. How could I forget your busy schedule.” Steve rolls his eyes and pushes himself off the bed. “I’ll leave you to it,” he says, glancing at the book that’s lying cover-down on the bed sheet. 

 

“You can stay,” Bucky responds quickly. Hopefully. “If you want.”

 

He settles back down, shifting so he’s more horizontal against the pile of pillows. “As long as I’m not bothering you.”

 

“Never.” Bucky picks up his book, and Steve gets a glimpse of the title. 

 

“The Fellowship of the Ring?”

 

Bucky’s eyes slide from the pages of his book to Steve’s face. “Yeah. It’s good.”

 

“I’ve been meaning to read it,” Steve admits. “I’ve been a little caught up with other things.”

 

Bucky hums, fingering at the pages a little. “Want me to read?” he offers.

 

Steve looks over at him, craning his neck to see his face. “Go ahead,” he says, confirming to himself that Bucky looks like he actually wants to.

 

Bucky smiles at him before facing back to the book, finding his spot. He clears his throat a bit before beginning to read.  _ “Frodo was silent. He too was gazing eastward along the road, as if he had never seen it before.” _

 

Bucky’s voice is slightly raspy, but Steve loves the sound of it. Gentle but rough all at the same time.

 

_ “Suddenly he spoke, aloud but as if to himself, saying slowly: _

 

_ The Road goes ever on and on _

 

_ Down from the door where it began. _

 

_ Now far ahead the Road has gone, _

 

_ And I must follow, if I can, _

 

_ Pursuing it with weary feet, _

 

_ Until it joins some larger way, _

 

_ Where many paths and errands meet. _

 

_ And whither then? I cannot say.” _

 

* * *

They’re at the private jet way T’Challa had arranged—an open field with a large enough clear space to land—waiting for their pick-up, when Steve realizes Bucky doesn’t have his bag. 

 

Steve’s got a duffel slung across his shoulder with their combined stuff, but Bucky doesn’t have anything.

 

They’re sitting against a thick, scratchy tree trunk, both of their backs pressed to the hard bark.

 

“You don’t have your bag,” Steve comments, and Bucky glances over to him.

 

He shakes his head. “Don’t need it,” he says, before falling quiet again. The rush of wind whistles loudly through the trees around them.

 

Steve begrudgingly takes the answer and lets it go, but he wishes he would tell him what he’s got in there on his own free will. Sure, Steve already knows, and he realizes that maybe Bucky is embarrassed about what he’s got written in the notebooks, but he doesn’t keep secrets from Bucky.

 

Except for the one where he looked at his private notebooks.

 

Irony, he thinks, is a fickle bitch.

 

There’s a faint whirring sound above them, and they simultaneously look up and squint into the sun to see a large, oval shadow slowly descending downwards.

 

Bucky stands up, using the tree trunk for balance, and Steve follows in his lead.

 

As the shape gets closer, the whirring becomes louder. The increased wind whips at Bucky’s hair as he shields his eyes with his hand.

 

They watch the quinjet land, waiting for the engines to die out before getting any closer. A person jumps down from the outside steps and starts walking towards them. Steve recognizes it as one of T’Challa’s staff members.

 

Steve meets them halfway, Bucky following behind.

 

“Captain Rogers,” she says, extending a slight hand.

 

Steve accepts the name reluctantly and shakes her hand.

 

“My name is Khamsa,” she says, accent thick. “I work with King T’Challa. He sent me to gather you and your friends.”

 

“Yeah. Do you, uh, know  _ why  _ he called us in?” Steve asks her, casting a quick glance towards the large waiting jet.

 

Khamsa smiles. “He’ll explain himself when you arrive. Come with me, please.”

 

Steve looks back to Bucky—who seems strangely calm—before following Khamsa onto the jet.

 

He’s surprised to see Wanda, Sam, and Scott already there. Sam and Wanda are playing cards across from each other at a small two-person table, while Scott looms over Sam’s shoulder, signaling strange, unreadable motions with his hands to Wanda.

 

Wanda is obviously ignoring him, and Sam keeps batting his hand backwards to smack Scott away.

 

Wanda briefly looks away from her cards and spots Steve, immediately smiling brightly. She drops her cards and goes over to him, wrapping her arms around his abdomen.

 

“It’s been awhile,” she says. “How have you been holding up?” She looks up at him as she pulls back, waiting patiently with a small smile.

 

Steve clears his throat, trying very hard to not look at Bucky while he shuffles past Steve and over to a vacant bench hung against the side of the jet’s wall. “Good. I’ve been good. You?”

 

“Okay. It’s been a bit hard on my own, but I’m okay.” 

 

Steve quickly hugs her again, feeling selfish for his own stupid problems while Wanda struggles to live a life without any family. 

 

“It’s good to see you again,” he tells her.

 

“You too, Steve.” 

 

He notices finally that her accent is slightly heavier since than the last time they’ve talked, and he realizes he doesn’t even know where she’s been living since the Accords. Probably back in Sokovia, he guesses.

 

The jet’s engines rumble, and Wanda pulls him over to an extra chair before it takes off and he has the chance to fall. Sam claps him distractedly on the back as he passes the small table.

 

“Hey, man. Your boy looks better than the last time I saw him,” he notes, picking and arranging a few of the cards. “Less scruffy.”

 

“Yeah,” Steve agrees. “He’s been doing a lot better. It’s nice to see progress.”

 

Sam hums as Wanda picks up a few more cards.

 

Steve has no idea what game they’re playing, but he smoothly migrates from his chair over to Bucky’s bench once he gets used to the jerky movements of the jet. “You doin’ okay?” he asks, watching Bucky fiddle with the hem of his shirt.

 

“Hm? Oh, yeah. Just, flying kinda gives me a weird feeling. I don’t know. I’ll be fine.” He flaps his hand around halfheartedly by his leg.

 

Steve snakes his own hand by Bucky’s to give his thigh a comforting squeeze. “The ride won’t be too long,” he promises. “Just stick by me.”

 

Bucky looks up at him, eyes shining and grateful. “Thanks, Stevie,” he murmurs, averting his stare to Steve’s hand on his leg. 

 

Steve’s heart clenches, and he rubs his thumb back and forth across the rough denim.

 

* * *

“Wake up,” Bucky grunts, hours later, after having stopped to pick up another passenger.

 

Steve mumbles a bit into the fabric against his face. There’s a sharp pinch on his side, and he groands and slaps away to offending hand. He slowly sits up, and quickly realizes his head had been resting just nearly to the right of Bucky’s crotch for however long he was out. He flushes and doesn’t look up at him.

 

“Sorry,” he murmurs, running his fingers through his hair.

 

And when he does look at Bucky, he’s met with a small, tentative smile. “Don’t be,” Bucky says. “You sure are somethin’ else when you sleep.”

 

“Oh yeah,” Sam agrees loudly from where he sits across from them. He’s slumped over on the armrest, looking lazy and rested. “You don’t snore, but you sure do talk. And you were nuzzling Bucky’s leg pretty affectionately too.” Sam smirks at him.

 

Steve can feel the heat rushing through his cheeks and all the way down his chest. “Oh.” He spares a short glance at Bucky. “Sorry,” he repeats sheepishly.

 

Bucky smiles. “You were gettin’ real nice and cozy with my thigh. But you’re lucky I found it endearing.”

 

“Steve, your head was totally on his dick,” Clint pipes up from one of the tables.

 

Steve doesn’t know if it’s possible for his blush to become darker, but it sure does feel like it. Sam bursts out laughing, and Steve levels out a glare towards him.

 

“I thought you were retired, Clint,” Steve bites out, avoiding looking at Bucky.

 

Clint shrugs and takes a bite of the sandwich he has in his hands. “Being retired is boring. I just don’t do as much work anymore, you know? I’ve cut back. And when T’Challa called and said it was important, I just thought it’d be a good idea.”

 

Steve manages to understand him through the food in his mouth. “Well, it’s good to see you again. I guess,” he adds; the way Clint said ‘dick’ was still extremely fresh in his mind.

 

Clint smiles cheekily.

 

“Aw, it’s all right, Steve. I didn’t mind,” Bucky teases. He leans over to bump Steve’s shoulder with his metal stump.

 

Steve’s flush is very persistent, so he looks down and away hoping no one will notice.

 

“We’re in Wakanda, now. Just a few more minutes,” Sam tells him, glancing out the window.

 

Steve follows his gaze outside, and the jet is close enough to the ground that he can see the canopy of the jungle not far below them. They start to descend when the trees thin out and more buildings appear. The quinjet lands right next to a huge building, white and pristine looking. Steve guesses it to be T’Challa’s mansion.

 

T’Challa greets them at the landing site, waiting with one of his guards.

 

“Captain Rogers, Sergeant Barnes. It’s a pleasure to see you again,” he says, taking Steve’s hand. He turns to Bucky. “You’re doing well?”

 

Bucky nods. “Much better, thank you.”

 

T’Challa greets Sam next, then Wanda and Scott and Clint.

 

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” he says to Scott, offering out his hand.

 

Scott eagerly takes it. “Scott Lang. It’s an honor to actually meet you when we’re not, you know, like fighting and stuff.”

 

T’Challa gives him a hesitant smile. “Yes, well…” His eyes flash over to Bucky, but only briefly. Steve has the strong urge to shield Bucky from any and all harm, even if it was in the past. “I’d love to show you around before we get to talking, if you don’t mind,” he continues, motioning towards the large building behind him.

 

“Course not,” Clint says. “I’d love to see the house of royalty.” He claps his hands together and rubs them excitedly. 

 

“This way, then.” T’Challa directs them inside, Khamsa and T’Challa’s guard following close behind. “You had a nice flight?”

 

“Oh, yeah,” Sam responds. “Good food, good seats. We had a blast.”

 

“That’s good to hear.”

 

T’Challa’s mansion looks even bigger on the inside. The entryway is grand and made up of polished marble, already a sign of wealth. He leads the team farther in before turning up a staircase. Also marble.

 

“This guy is fucking loaded,” he hears Scott mutter behind him.

 

“He’s a king, you idiot,” Clint whispers back, before there’s a small smack.

 

“Ow!”

 

* * *

“I’ve brought you here to talk about the Avengers and the Accords.”

 

Steve raises his eyebrows, glancing around at his peers all seated at the conference table. “The Accords? What’s there to talk about?” he asks.

 

“None of you signed it, correct?” T’Challa checks.

 

“No, why?” Steve asks, growing confused.

 

“I wanted to discuss the prospect of a new Avengers group,” T’Challa says.

 

The room is silent for a few moments until Wanda pipes up. “A new... _ Avengers  _ group

 

“Yes. But, of course, without the name. It’s been coined, and frankly, it’s a bit more obvious than what I’m going for,” T’Challa explains, though Steve continues to become more puzzled the more he talks.

 

“What?” Steve asks, unable to think of anything else to say.

 

“I’ve been monitoring problems and crimes around the globe ever since the Avengers split,” he starts, “and things have been more out of control than they ever have been. The secretary of state was wrong in bringing about the Sokovia Accords. I brought you all here to make it right.”

 

“How do you plan on doing that?” Sam pipes up, leaning forward on the table.

 

T’Challa slides forward a manilla folder, and Steve looks up at him cautiously before taking it. 

 

“The Secret Avengers,” T’Challa says. “The Avengers who didn’t sign the Accords, working undercover to make right what the Avengers haven’t.”

 

Steve flips through the papers in the folder, looking through details. Bucky leans into him to also have a look.

 

“It’s not overlooked by the government?” Clint checks.

 

T’Challa shakes his head. “No. Hence the name.”

 

“Super clever, by the way,” Scott says.

 

Steve rereads a few lines before speaking up. “Where would we be staying?”

 

“You’re all allowed to live in your own homes, wherever you like. I’d just have one of my pilots come and pick you up whenever you’re needed. Of course,” he continues, “all of you are very welcome to stay here. There’s plenty of room.”

 

Steve looks at Bucky, who’s keeping his eyes on T’Challa. Moving out of  _ Brooklyn?  _ He doesn’t know if he could go through with that, let alone living in another country. He doesn’t even know if he wants to join T’Challa’s group.

 

Yeah, his apartment is small and falling apart, and he has to wear sunglasses and a hat whenever he leaves so he doesn’t get recognized, and maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to start fresh, but Brooklyn is home.

 

“Can we talk this over, T’Challa? Just give us a few minutes?” he asks, fiddling with the edges of the folder.

 

T’Challa nods once. “Of course, Captain. Take as long as you need.” He walks out with one of his staff members following closely on his tail. Steve vaguely thinks that if he ever had someone following behind him at all times, he’d snap. He turns back to everyone else. 

 

“Well?”

 

“I don’t know, man,” Clint sighs, scratching the back of his neck. “I was out. I was retired. I got kids and a wife at home that need me.”

 

“I don’t think it’s a horrible idea,” Sam says. “Then again, what else have  I  got to be doing.”

 

“I don’t want to hurt anyone else,” Wanda’s quiet voice drifts from the other end of the table. 

 

“You won’t,” Steve tells her firmly. “Even if you do join, T’Challa has a well-rounded, organized staff team. They wouldn’t let you hurt anyone. Especially not yourself.”

 

Bucky looks over to him, eyes wide. “You think this is a good idea?” 

 

Steve takes a deep breath. “I agree with Sam. It’s got potential.”

 

Bucky looks worried. “But, you don’t even have your shield anymore, Steve. How are you gonna fight?”

 

Steve shrugs. “I don’t need it to fight. And I’m sure T’Challa’s engineers can come up with something practical if I can’t work without it.”

 

Bucky chews on his bottom lip, avoiding eye contact. Steve reaches out to place his hand on Bucky’s knee. “You think this is a bad idea.”

 

Bucky flicks his gaze up. “Yes,” he says simply.

 

Steve sighs, looking over at Clint, who’s got kids and a wife and a  _ family  _ to get back to. Wanda, who’s scared of herself, and Sam—ex-vet Sam Wilson. He can’t drag these people back into the fight, even if Sam wants to and Wanda  _ won’t  _ hurt anyone and Clint could arrange where he could see his family anytime. 

 

He realizes he doesn’t want to do it because  _ Bucky  _ doesn’t want to.

 

“You’re right,” he says. “It’s probably not the best idea. And together we’ve still got enough back pay and Avengers’ money leftover to get us through...a really long time.”

 

“Yeah, that’s great for you guys, but what about me?” Scott says. “I am extremely broke, and I’ve got a kid that I share custody with now. The money would be nice.”

 

“I agree with Scott,” Sam says. “I think it’s a good idea. And he said undercover work, right? So we let the Avengers and the government deal with the public, dangerous stuff, while we get to deal with everything the government sets on the back burner. Not a bad way to get back into it and make some money.”

 

Next to Steve, Bucky fidgets.

 

“Maybe we should think about it a little longer,” Steve suggest. “You know, just take a week.”

 

Sam eyes him up. “All right, Rogers, I’m game.”

 

“And the rest of you?” Steve asks.

 

“I stand by my answer,” Scott says.

 

“I’ll think about it,” Clint tells them.

 

“Same here,” Wanda agrees.

  
Steve chews on the inside of his cheek, gently kneading at Bucky’s knee to offer some sort of comfort.


	6. Chapter 6

They stay in Wakanda for the next couple days, taking a vacation from their vacation. Steve catches up with Sam and Wanda and Clint and Scott, happy to look at any and all children pictures and listen to story after story.

 

Bucky manages to stay hidden for the most part, and Sam dutifully asks how it’s going with him.

 

“Better,” Steve replies, though he can’t help vividly remembering being almost shot by Bucky in the middle of the night.

 

But Sam takes it, doesn’t push, even though he probably sees right through him.

 

All in all, it’s a nice couple days to hang out with his friends and not worry about anything.

 

Until they head home.

 

* * *

They don’t make it back to their apartment. They don’t even make it to the building.

 

They’d been walking home from the subway station after they were dropped off from the quinjet. Bucky notices it first, tensing up and slowing down. He stops, allowing Steve to wander a few steps ahead of him before Steve notices and turns around with a curious look.

 

Bucky meets Steve’s eyes. “Where is everyone?” he whispers, glancing suspiciously around the empty street; the block absent of the usual bustling crowd.

 

Bucky immediately pulls a gun from his waistband and holds it at his side as they edge their way against a brick building across from their apartment complex. Steve holds him back by keeping a hand at his chest as he checks the building around the corner.

 

Their apartment’s got cryptic black vans parked all around it, and he can spot a bulky guard dressed in black Kevlar standing by the entrance, talking to someone else in a suit.

 

Steve watches, and Bucky pushes forward to see.

 

His breath hitches, right before he lurches forward, gun up. Ready to run in fighting.

 

Steve grabs him around his waist to hold him back.

 

“Steve!” Bucky shouts, rage evident in his voice. “Steve, let me go!” 

 

They’re far enough away that no one can hear them, but it still doesn’t eliminate the chance of someone spotting them. He stumbles under Bucky’s weight, but manages to pull him back behind the wall where the guard can’t see their struggle.

 

“ _ Steve!" _

 

Steve falls onto his back on the sidewalk, pulling Bucky with him. They’re like two turtles, stuck on top of one another. Bucky’s gun clatters off to the side as Steve’s duffel is crushed beneath him.

 

“Buck,” Steve says, a bit breathless. “Buck,  _ stop. _ ”

 

“ _ My bag!" _  he yells, and Steve’s heart drops. 

 

“It’s gone!” he yells back. “We can’t go back, Bucky it’s gone!”

 

Bucky stops fighting and angrily pushes himself off Steve. Steve can finally see the painful grimace etching Bucky’s face as they sit back across from one another.

 

“We have to get out of here,” Steve says, catching his breath and trying not to watch Bucky’s anguished expression.

 

Bucky looks down and nods, slowly getting to his feet, jaw clenching tightly.

 

“I’m sorry,” Steve says softly, reaching out to grab Bucky’s wrist.

 

Bucky brushes him off and continues walking the other way.

 

“Bucky, wait,” Steve calls, reaching over to grab the duffel and Bucky’s gun before jogging to catch up. “Bucky.”

 

“What, Steve?” Bucky snaps, staring straight ahead and walking with a purpose.

 

“Where–where are you gonna go?” he says, instead of  _ I’m so sorry, Buck.  _ Like he wants to.

 

Bucky stops abruptly, and Steve stumbles. Bucky wheels onto Steve, jaw set and eyes hard. “I don’t  _ know. Okay?  _ Where the hell  _ are  _ we supposed to go, Steve? Our apartment is  _ gone.  _ Hydra  _ found  _ us and now we have to fucking  _ run. Again!" _

 

Steve takes a minuscule step back, staring at Bucky’s face. He’s angry; eyes blazing and breathing heavy. “I–” Steve swallows, calculating what he should say. “We can find another apartment, Bucky. I don’t care. It was kind of a shitty place anyway.”

 

“You don’t get it, Steve!” Bucky shouts, and Steve’s glad the streets are clear. “I had  _ stuff  _ in that shitty place!  _ My  _ stuff. I don’t own anything else! Everything’s gone!” He stops, chest heaving and face shiny with tears.

 

Steve shifts his grip on Bucky’s gun and hands it over, not meeting his eyes. Bucky silently takes it. He never realized until now how much Bucky’s bag actually means to him. It’s the first thing he owned after he escaped Hydra. The first thing that he could call his own. And now it’s gone. Everything that was ever important to him is gone. His memories are gone.

 

“Buck…” Steve says, voice breaking on the one syllable. “I’m sorry.” 

 

“Yeah,” Bucky says rigidly. “Me too.” 

 

* * *

“We’ve got a small problem,” Steve says into the phone.

 

Him and Bucky are currently squatting at a ratty motel over in Queens for the time being, until they can figure out what they’re doing.

 

“Are you okay, Steve?” T’Challa asks, concern lacing his voice.

 

“No, yeah. We’re good,” Steve tells him, glancing over at Bucky on the other small, dingy bed. He’s got his back turned to Steve, legs slightly bent to keep his feet from falling off the edge. “I, uh, I’m calling about reconsidering your offer.”

 

T’Challa hums, crackling through Steve’s temporary flip phone. “That’s good to hear, Captain, but what about your friends?”

 

“I’ll talk to them about it.”

 

“I’ll look forward to hearing from you, then.”

 

Steve sighs, and then involuntarily shivers as he watches a large, unidentifiable bug scurry across the floorboards. “Of course, T’Challa.” He hangs up, then fiddles with the phone in his lap for a few moments. He’ll start with Sam, but he stands up to go to the bathroom, not sure if Bucky should hear this.

 

He punches in the number and impatiently waits for the ringing to stop and for Sam to pick up. He sits down on the dirty porcelain of the toilet and jiggles his leg anxiously.

 

“Hello?” Sam answers, sounding wary.

 

“Sam, it’s me,” Steve says, scratching at his hairline.

 

“Steve? What’s up, man?”

 

“Uh, Bucky and I...we aren’t doing so hot,” he starts, worrying at his lower lip.

 

“Are you guys all right? Do you need me to come up?” 

 

“No, no, that’s okay. It’s just, our apartment got ransacked. Hydra found us, so we’re on the run again.”

 

“Oh, boy,” Sam sighs. “Sorry, Steve. Is Barnes doing okay?”

 

“Um, he’s upset. One of his bags got left behind. It was important to him. He’ll be fine, though,” Steve explains. 

 

“That’s good. What do you need, then? A place to stay?”

 

Steve chuckles. “Well, yeah, but that’s not what I’m calling about. I think the Secret Avengers is a good idea. Bucky and I could lay low in Wakanda where we wouldn’t be bothered. What’d you think?”

 

“I think it’s a practical idea. Probably the best, but how does Bucky feel about this plan?”

 

“I don’t think we can stay in New York anymore. I haven’t even asked him yet,” Steve tells him, nervously rubbing his hands across the rough denim of his jeans.

 

“You might want to think about doing that before going any further,” Sam suggests.

 

“Don’t worry. I will,” he assures him. “Would you mind doing me a favor, then?” he asks hopefully.

 

“Course, Steve. Always.”

 

“You wanna assemble the Secret Avengers for me?”

 

Sam sighs dramatically. “Why do I always gotta do the dirty work?”

 

“It’s not  _ dirty  _ work, Sam. You think you can handle it, though?”

 

“Yes, dad.”

 

Steve grins, shaking his head. “I’ll be around, okay.”

 

“Good luck, Steve. And stay safe.”

 

“You too, Sam.” 

 

Steve braces himself in the bathroom to go and meet Bucky again. He knows he should say something. Try to talk to him about it. About  _ anything,  _ really. He just doesn’t know what to  _ say.  _

 

So he shuffles back out into the small, poorly lit room and sits down on his bed, setting the phone on the nightstand. Bucky’s still on his side. Resting on his right shoulder. His arm is wrapped around his body though, hand resting just under the metal of his other shoulder, clutching at the fabric of his shirt.

 

Steve moves to turn off the lamp, stretching his fingers until they hit a switch. “Night, Buck,” he murmurs, settling down.

 

Bucky stays silent.

Hours later, deep into sleep, Steve groans when his phone rings loudly by his ear. He blindly reaches out towards the sound and brings his phone to his ear. 

 

“Rogers,” he grunts, burying his head into his pillow.

 

“Rise and shine, buddy boy,” Sam says, way too cheerful this early in the morning. 

 

“What d’you want?” Steve mumbles, blinking groggily over at Bucky’s bed. Bucky’s back is still facing him, like he hasn’t moved a muscle since Steve last opened his eyes.

 

“It’s time to get this show on the road!” he shouts excitedly. Loudly.

 

Steve has to move the phone away from his ear a little. He shuffles around a bit and sits up against the headboard. “What.” He blinks his eyes.

 

“Everyone’s on board, Steve. You, Wanda, and I are all headed down to Wakanda today. Scott and Clint are staying with their families. And T’Challa said he’d set up transportation so I could visit the VA on weekends.”

 

“We’re actually doing this? How’d you get everyone overnight?” Steve asks, trying to formulate a plan in his head. Are they actually moving to Wakanda?

 

“It wasn’t hard. I called T’Challa too. He’s sending another quinjet. He’ll pick you up at the same place,” Sam tells him.

 

“Right, right. Okay,” Steve mutters, placing the phone in between his cheek and shoulder to kick off the bed sheets and stand up. He grabs the duffel bag sitting against the wall and throws it onto the bed.

 

“See you soon, man. Does eleven work?”

 

Steve huffs out a disdainful laugh. “Like I’ve got anything better to do.”

 

“You, my friend, need to keep out of the public eye,” Sam replies. “See you later, Steve.”

 

“You too, Sam.” Steve shoves the phone into the bag before edging his way towards Bucky. Steve knows he’s awake. There’s no way he would be after Steve’s carelessly noisy phone call. “Buck?” he asks gently.

 

There’s a moment of silence, then, “Yeah?”

 

“Uh, I’m sure you heard, but we’re going to Wakanda. We can hide out there for awhile. Away from Hydra,” he explains, feeling awkward talking to Bucky’s unmoving back.

 

Bucky hums, short and disinterested. “All right.”

 

“Maybe we should go get something to eat?” he suggests, shifting on his feet.

 

Bucky moves a bit then; onto his back and then up into a sitting position. He looks at Steve with an unimpressed glare. The messy hair really sets it off. “Where are we gonna go where Hydra won’t be on our tails?”

 

“Oh.” Steve scratches at the back of his neck, feeling stupid for not thinking of something so obvious, and then being called out for it. “Right, sorry. We probably don’t have that much time anyway.”

 

“What time is it?”

 

“Oh, uh, almost nine, I think,” Steve tells him.

 

“Jesus. We really slept in, huh?” He chuckles and moves his legs to the side of the bed. “I guess we should get a move on, then.” He glances up at Steve briefly, then down and away, as if he can’t stand to look at him. “I don’t feel like taking the subway today. Too many people.”

 

Steve instantly tries to calculate the amount of time it would take to walk to the outer edge of Brooklyn where the landing area is. “You wanna walk?” he clarifies, just to be sure.

 

Bucky shrugs, idly stretching his legs. “Maybe a taxi.”

They end up renting an old, beat up Honda that has definitely seen better days. It rattles along with the occasional choking engine sound.

 

The inside of the car isn’t tense, exactly, but it isn’t the friendly and comfortable silence he wishes it were. Bucky is tight-lipped, even if he does answer short and clipped responses whenever Steve tries to start up a conversation.

 

He eventually gives up, letting the stuffy silence settle over the car like a thick, woolly blanket. You know, the itchy kind.

 

Luckily, once they get out of downtown, the roads are pretty clear and it doesn’t take them long to get there. 

 

He’d rented the Honda under an alias, just planning on leaving it wherever they park. He ends up parking it just behind a tree line. He and Bucky trek the rest of the way with the duffel bag over Steve’s shoulder.

 

“Are you okay?” Steve asks when he can’t stand the quiet any longer. He’s genuinely concerned anyway. Not just trying to start up a conversation.

 

“Moving across the globe is a big commitment, Steve,” Bucky replies with a bitter tone to the edge of his voice.

 

Steve’s breath catches, and he looks over at Bucky. “I’m sorry. It seemed like a good option.”

 

Bucky sighs and starts walking slower, without as much power and determination to get going. “I know,” he admits softly. “It  _ is  _ a good option. Probably the only realistic option we’ve got, but it’s hard. I mean, yeah, the apartment was kinda small and shitty, but it was  _ home,  _ you know?” He shrugs, as if dismissing everything he’s just said. “It’s stupid.”

 

Steve knows it’s definitely not stupid. Steve’s shitty and small apartment was Bucky’s first ever real home after escaping Hydra. After remembering Steve and everything else. “It’s not,” Steve says. “I get it, and I’m sorry.” He scrubs a hand across his face. “I’m just trying to keep us safe.”

 

“I know,” Bucky says, and nothing else.

 

The jet is already landed when they get there, and Sam greets them both with a hug. 

 

“Good to see you again,” he tells them. “Even if it’s only been like three days.”

 

“You too, Sam,” Steve responds with a smile. 

 

Wanda’s curled up on one of the benches reading a book. She looks up and smiles at Steve when he gets on. She even directs her smile at Bucky, though he doesn’t notice.

 

“Long time no see,” she says.

 

“Yeah,” Steve laughs. “No kidding.”

 

“He just couldn’t wait to see us,” Sam offers up, smirking at Steve as he passes him.

 

Steve takes a seat by Wanda, and watches carefully as Bucky sits across from him, avoiding eye contact by keeping his gaze on the floor. 

 

“I’m sorry about your apartment,” Wanda says softly, running a hand down his bicep. “Sam told me what happened.”

 

Steve tries to keep his expression even as he responds. “It’s not a big deal. It was a crappy apartment anyway.”

 

Wanda smiles at him sympathetically, and Steve knows she doesn’t believe anything coming from Steve’s mouth at the moment. He nods once, averting his eyes.

 

“At least T’Challa can have his little boy band now,” Sam says. 

 

Steve shrugs. “It’s not a bad idea. He’s a smart man with a smart team.”

 

“Why is he helping  _ us,  _ though?” Sam asks. “He was all for Stark the last I recall.”

 

“He wasn’t with Stark,” Bucky joins in. “He just wanted to murder me until he found out I wasn’t in Vienna.” Bucky shrugs, awkward with one arm. “He helped me after that.”

 

“He’s not for the Accords. His father was. T’Challa’s for helping people. And in his position of power, he’s allowed to do that,” Wanda explains, running her fingers along the spine of her book.

 

“Like I said,” Steve tells them, “I think it’s smart.”

 

“And now I get to live in a mansion for free,” Sam exclaims, rubbing his hands together.

 

Steve scoffs playfully, and as he watches the hint of a smile play at Bucky’s lips, he thinks that maybe this won’t be too bad.

In Wakanda, T’Challa welcomes them by showing them to their separate quarters. Each of them have their own apartment on the same floor, which just adds to the illusion of how big T’Challa’s mansion is. Bucky and Steve share an apartment, per request, and Wanda and Sam each have their own.

 

T’Challa graces them with a week to settle down and get comfortable before there’s any talk about the Secret Avengers.

 

There’s a shared commons area at the end of the hall with floor to ceiling windows that overlook a Wakandan jungle, complete with couches and easy chairs and a flat screen on the adjacent wall.

 

It reminds Steve of the Avengers tower. Except T’Challa is a bit more tolerable.

 

Okay, a lot more tolerable. Steve isn’t even sure tolerable is the right word. T’Challa is a good friend who’s going out of his way to help Bucky. Instead of going out of his way to kill him.

 

Their apartment holds a homey atmosphere, nothing like the rest of the mansion, which could be considered cold and metallic and pristine. 

 

When they finally settle down enough, Bucky claims his bedroom at the end of the hall. The room with the window and the bed with the dark red and purple quilt. Steve’s room is similar, but less set up. He lets Bucky have his choice first, guilt eating him up from the inside about the lost backpack.

 

Bucky, however, never once mentions the bag. And Steve lets it be. Until Sam comes up to him in the commons  a couple days later.

 

“Hey, man. You seem kinda...moody lately.”

 

Steve jerks his head up from his gaze out the window. It’s dark out, and the rain splattering against the window offers a calming drumming sound. Sam stands by the couch, waiting patiently. “Huh?” he says unintelligently. 

 

Sam sighs and sits on the armrest of the chair across from him. “You’ve been distant lately. What’s up?” he tries again, looking at Steve expectantly.

 

Steve crinkles his eyebrows. “Distant? I don’t–”

 

“Come on, Steve,” Sam cuts him off, resigned. “You’re not usually so…” He waves his hand around, trying to find the right word. “So quiet.”

 

“Quiet?” Steve repeats. He thinks it over. Maybe he’s been pretty focused on Bucky since they moved, gauging and calculating his reactions and sleep schedule and anything out of the ordinary. He hasn’t been out of their apartment or talked much to anyone in the last couple days, except for right now. Bucky’d been sleeping when he left, and he just needed some air.

 

“Yeah, man. What’s wrong? You know you can talk to me, right?”

 

Steve nods and looks out the window again. The trees below them shake and shift in the strong winds of the storm. “I know, Sam. I’m sorry. It’s just been hard settling down in a new place without any stuff. Bucky’s been doing okay about it, but I think it’s just an act. He was really broken up when he saw our apartment.”

 

Sam nods understandingly. “And you’re worried about him,” he guesses.

 

Steve huffs a sardonic laugh. “I can’t help it. He’s my best friend.” The images of the contents of Bucky’s notebook flash through his mind, and he scrubs a hand over his face.

 

“I get it, but maybe he really is over it,” Sam says, and when Steve looks up to give him a raised eyebrow, he continues. “I mean, I get why you worry about him. He’s been through a hell of a lot of shit, but it’s just stuff that you lost. Items you can replace.”

 

Steve shakes his head. “You don’t understand. He had this backpack–” he cuts himself off, completely appalled at himself for even  _ thinking  _ about telling Sam what he did. About what’s in the backpack.

 

But Sam raises his eyebrows and urges Steve to continue. 

 

Steve takes a deep breath and looks Sam in the eye. He can trust Sam. Sam is his best friend. Sam is trusting and wouldn’t tell a soul. Sam is a therapist. Sam is Sam.

 

“He had these notebooks,” Steve starts again. “He writes down anything he remembers.  _ Everything  _ he remembers.”

 

“Isn’t that a good thing?” Sam shifts so he’s got his elbows on his knees, leaning forward attentively. “He’s gaining his memories back. I’m sure he just writes them down so he can keep his thoughts in check.”

 

Steve nods his head. “Exactly. And now it’s gone. Hydra’s gone and taken away his memories  _ again.  _ I thought it was  _ over,  _ Sam, but it’s not. They’re still fucking him up even after he’s out of their hands.” He sighs and looks down, trying to compose himself, even though Sam’s the most understanding person he’s ever met.

 

“You all right?” Sam asks after a moment.

 

Steve shakily nods his head. “Yeah. Sorry, I just–”

 

“Hey,” Sam interrupts, “it’s okay. Sorry man, I didn’t know.” Sam stops for a second, watching Steve carefully. “Of course he’s gonna be upset. At first, I mean, but it’s something that he’ll get over. Probably already has.”

 

Steve calculates what he’s going to say next. “Maybe it’s not him,” he says eventually. “It–it’s me.”

 

“Yeah? What about you?” Sam asks. He’s brought out his  _ counselor  _ voice.

 

“I–” Steve shakes his head. “I read one of his notebooks.” He groans and covers his face with one of his hands before dragging it downward. 

 

“I’m guessing you weren’t supposed to,” Sam assumes. 

 

Steve looks at him culpably. “Definitely not.”

 

“So what’s the matter then?” Sam questions. “You feel guilty about it?”

 

Steve scoffs. “Well yeah, but that’s not the big problem.” He can’t believe he’s about to spill his guts. He just needs to remember, he trusts Sam.

 

“What’s the big problem, Steve?”

 

“It’s what I read,” Steve tells him, voice shaking. “I–I think Bucky–” he stammers, trying to find the right words. “He–fuck. Sorry.”

 

“You don’t have to tell me,” Sam assures him, concerned.

 

Steve knows this, and he knows he probably shouldn’t, but he’s gotta get this off his chest. “I want to,” he says, steeling himself and trying to figure out how. He decides the best way to go is just to fucking unload. “Bucky’s que–”

 

Fuck. That maybe wasn’t the best way to go. He’d almost just said _queer._ People don’t say that anymore. It’s not right. He tries to correct himself. “Wait, no,” he backtracks.

 

Sam’s eyebrows are down in confusion, trying to decode Steve’s huge jumble of words. “Bucky’s what? Did you say  _ queer? _ ”

 

Steve flushes bright red, can feel the heat all over his face and down his neck. He runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah,” he mumbles.

 

“Okay, I just wanna address this first, people don’t really say  _ queer  _ anymore unless it applies to them,” Sam tells him.

 

“I know, I know. Sorry. It just kinda slipped out.” Steve tentatively watches Sam’s expression.

 

“So Bucky’s gay? That’s what you’re freaking out about?” Sam laughs, shaking his head. “Man, you are too funny.”

 

Saying that Steve’s taken aback is a bit of an understatement. “What?”

 

“Steve, man, so what? Good for Bucky. It’s a good time for him to come out. You know the 21st century is a lot more accepting than the 30’s.” Sam pauses for a moment. “Are  _ you  _ not okay with it?”

 

“What? No! God, no. That’s not it,” Steve says. This isn’t going well. “He–what he wrote in the notebooks, I really wasn’t meant to see...because it was about me.”

 

Sam stares for a few seconds, mulling over what Steve’s told him. “Oh,” is all he says.

 

The air between them is awkward and silent for a beat too long. “So, he’s gay, and he’s into  _ you, _ ” Sam sums up, nodding his head.

 

“Uh, yeah. Pretty much.”

 

“And it’s bad because you don’t feel that way about him,” Sam pieces together.

 

“Well,” Steve starts, then cuts himself off. He flushes red again. 

 

“ _ Oh. _ ” Sam sounds smug. More smug than Steve’s ever heard him before. And that’s saying something.

 

“No, wait. I–I don’t know,” he stutters. “I’ve never really thought of him as anything else until I read the notebook. But now…”

 

“Steve, you dog.” Sam reaches over to pat Steve’s knee appreciatively. 

 

“Sam. I need help. I’m confused all the time. I don’t know how to look at Bucky anymore. I don’t know how to act. And he doesn’t even know. Nothing’s changed for him,” Steve admits. His right leg is now sporadically bouncing up and down. 

 

“And everything’s changed for you,” Sam finishes. “So what, you don’t think you’re straight?”

 

“I don’t know,” Steve sighs. “But I know I loved Peggy. I can’t be gay then.” He looks at Sam worriedly. “Right?”

 

Sam laughs again. “You don’t have to one or the other. You can like both. You can love Peggy and still love Bucky,” he explains.

 

“The same way?” Steve checks.

 

“Yeah, man. Ever heard of the term  _ bisexual. _ That sounds about right for you. I mean, if you do feel about Bucky like that.”

 

Steve rubs at his head. “Yeah. I think–I think I do.” And he feels so much better after having said it out loud. Like a weight gone off his shoulders. But now he has to deal with the aftermath.

 

Sam’s smiling. Too much, if you ask Steve. “This is great,” he says, all happy.

 

“What am I supposed to do now, Sam?” Steve asks. 

 

“You let things happen. Once one of you asshats gain enough courage to make a move—which should be you, by the way—you two super soldiers can get it on.” Sam smirks. “God, can you imagine super soldier sex? How  _ wild  _ would that be?”

 

“Sam!” Steve stops him, horribly indignant and furiously red.

 

Sam just laughs, bright and airy before standing up. “Good luck, Steve. Get some rest.”

 

“Thanks, Sam.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's pretty short, but a new one will be out soon to make up for it. Enjoy!

Nothing really changes after that except for Steve’s awareness. He and Bucky go out once to the market down the street to buy fresh fruit. Bucky’s already picked up on some of the local Wakandan language, but Steve is still clueless. 

 

But that’s nothing new.

 

T’Challa calls them into the conference room on the main floor on a Wednesday. The mansion is brightly lit with the sun shining in through all of the windows. 

 

It appears to be just Bucky and Steve that have been called down, and T’Challa is already sitting down and reading through a pile of papers when they get there.

 

He looks up at them and smiles when he hears them approaching. “Come in and take a seat.”

 

“Morning, T’Challa,” Steve greets as he sits down in one of the black conference chairs, Bucky trailing after him.

 

“I assume you’ve been adjusting well?” he asks after they’ve situated themselves.

 

“You’ve got a nice home,” Steve replies. “It’s an honor to share it with you.”

 

“Ah,” T’Challa waves him off, “the place is too big anyway.”

 

“What do you need us for?” Steve asks, glancing at the papers in front of T’Challa.

 

“A few days ago, there was suspicious Hydra activity in the states and I sent Barton and Lang to do undercover work for me to seek out the problem,” he explains.

 

“Where do you have them working?” Bucky asks, suddenly interested.

 

“Maryland. They both make surprisingly good undercover agents.”

 

Steve laughs. “It’s shocking, isn’t it?”

 

T’Challa smiles back at him. “Indeed. But what I wanted to talk about is your part in the matter.” He flips some papers over and briefly looks at them. “Barton called yesterday morning to tell me he and Lang took care of a hidden Hydra base. They said they found something of yours and I had them send me it. You’ll be happy to hear it arrived earlier.”

 

Bucky lights up, eyes wide and mouth parted. “Really?” he asks quietly, almost suspicious.

 

Steve’s chest squeezes. 

 

“Yes, and I think Tazshariit should be bringing it down any second,” he says. “Did Captain Rogers perhaps lose a backpack?”

 

“Uh, no, actually,” Steve corrects. “That would be Bucky’s.”

 

“Oh, my apologies,” T’Challa expresses. “I just assumed since Agent Barton said he found–”

 

“No!” Bucky blurts, then immediately composes himself, clearly flustered. “It–it’s mine.” He quickly glances at Steve. “Sorry.”

 

Steve looks down at his lap, trying to not think about what’s in the bag. He jumps slightly when there’s a knock at the door, and a woman wearing colorful kanga scarf pops in, holding Bucky’s bag between slender fingers.

 

“Thank you, Tazshariit. That’ll be all,” T’Challa says to her. She nods her head and hands off the bag before disappearing. “All yours, Sergeant Barnes.”

 

Bucky reaches out and snags the bag; tugs it back until it falls into his lap. “Thank you,” he whispers, clumsily getting out of his seat. He’s out of the room before Steve can even blink. 

 

Steve reaches out and shakes T’Challa’s hand. “Sorry about Bucky. The bag means a lot to him.”

 

T’Challa shakes his hand with a smile. “Not a problem at all, Captain. I’m glad I could help.”

Steve doesn’t see Bucky for the rest of the day. Bucky stays locked in his room, quiet for hours. Steve becomes concerned around hour three, and finally does something about it around hour five.

 

Steve cautiously knocks on his door, standing nervously as he shifts from foot to foot.

 

There’s a muffled response from the inside. “Yeah?”

 

“Bucky?” Steve calls warily. “Can I come in?” He can hear a bunch of movement and shuffling around.

 

“Sure,” Bucky says.

 

Steve opens the door slowly, peeking in before entering all the way. 

 

The room is dark, the only light coming from the warm glowing lamp on the nightstand. Bucky’s sitting on the floor at the end of his bed, hugging the unzipped bag to his chest. Steve can see the spine of a notebook inside, and he swallows.

 

He’s been trying to forget what he read in it. The notebook was Bucky’s private property, and Steve ruined it the moment he read what was inside. It wasn’t his place, and he technically shouldn’t know about how Bucky feels, so he needs to act the part. And to do that he needs to pretend like he doesn’t remember. It helps him forget.

 

But now the bag is back. And Steve is almost ready to face up to what he’s done.

 

Except not.

 

Bucky’s eyes are rimmed with red, and he sniffles slightly as he looks up at Steve. He tries for a smile, but it comes out as more of a quick grimace. “Hey, Stevie.”

 

Steve quickly kneels down in front of him and wipes away his tears. Bucky tries to smile at him again. “What’s the matter, Buck?” he asks softly.

 

Bucky laughs shakily and jerks his head, like he’s trying to dismiss the question. “Nothin’,” he says, looking straight into Steve’s eyes.

 

“It’s about the bag,” Steve states, glancing down at the object in question.

 

“Is it that obvious?” Bucky chuckles sarcastically. 

 

Steve places his hand on Bucky’s knee and kneads his thumb in. “You’re on the floor with it in your lap,” he says. He takes a deep breath. “What’s in the backpack, Bucky?”

 

Bucky’s breath hitches and his grip on it tightens. He looks down in it, then back up at Steve. He laughs, and it’s starting to become a little hysteric. “I was gonna show you, I swear,” he tells Steve, more tears making their way down his cheeks. “I just didn’t know when.”

 

Steve stops breathing, and he can hear his heart thumping wildly in his chest. He’s suddenly acutely aware of his hand touching Bucky’s knee and the warmth seeping through his jeans. 

 

Bucky shifts around a bit to get his arm inside the bag, opening his legs wider so it can rest in his lap. Steve waits for him to pull out the notebook, a sheet of paper,  _ anything.  _ What he doesn’t expect is for the long silver chain to slowly make its way out. 

 

Once it’s all the way out, Bucky looks down at it in the palm of his hand, a couple tears dripping down his chin and onto his wrist. He looks back up at Steve. “I thought I lost them for good when Hydra raided our apartment.” He holds it out for Steve to take.

 

Steve slowly scoops the chain out of Bucky’s hand and looks at the metal plate connected to it.

 

_ Steven G Rogers, 987654320, T42 0, P _

 

Steve’s other hand comes up to cover his mouth, and all of a sudden, he’s crying too. Little sobs escape involuntarily as he looks at the worn and rusted metal. 

 

“I stole it from the museum,” Bucky laughs wetly. “I didn’t know how to give them back to you, so I didn’t.”

 

Steve stares at his dog tags in a daze. The dog tags he thought were gone for good when he woke up out of the ice with all his possessions in the Smithsonian. Both his hands are shaking. He struggles not to drop them.

 

Bucky’s hand comes up and onto his, slowly taking the tags back. “I’m sorry, Steve. I didn’t–”

 

Then Steve’s crashing into him. Bucky’s breath intakes sharply as he thumps softly against the bed. Steve sobs again, uncontrollably as he buries his head into the crook of Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky’s hand wraps around Steve’s body, still holding onto the dog tags.

 

“Thank you,” Steve chokes out into his ear. “Thank you so much.”

 

“You’re not mad?” Bucky murmurs.

 

Steve shakes his head into Bucky’s collarbone. “God, no, Bucky,” he says. He laughs and clutches at the fabric of Bucky’s shirt. He feels high on euphoria. “I can’t believe you stole this.”

 

Bucky huffs and runs his hand up Steve’s back until it rests at the base of his neck. “It wasn’t exactly hard.”

 

“You,” Steve cries, “are such a jerk.” He finally lifts his head to look Bucky in the eye. His eyes are shiny and his cheeks still bear tear tracks. Steve knows he looks worse. When he cries his eyes become red and puffy, and his nose gets runny. He’s an unattractive crier, which makes him want to bury his head back into Bucky’s neck.

 

But Bucky reaches up, chain dangling from his fist, and gently wipes away Steve’s tears with the knuckle of his index finger. Right now he just wants to keep looking at Bucky. “You okay?” Bucky asks softly.

 

“Better than okay,” Steve tells him. “Way better.” He sniffles a little, and Bucky breathes out through his mouth. “Sorry. I look like a mess.”

 

Bucky chuckles, licking his lips. Steve has the urge to do the same. “Don’t we both?”

 

“No,” Steve says, a little too quickly. “You always look nice.”

 

Bucky scoffs. “Such a charmer, Rogers.” He fumbles with the dog tags before retracting his arm. Steve loosens his grip as Bucky wiggles his hand in between them. “You want these back or not?” he asks, tapping them against Steve’s chest.

 

Steve gives his answer by wrapping his hand around Bucky’s, and he’s suddenly very occupied with the thought of how warm Bucky’s hand is.

 

He slips the tags out of Bucky’s grip and holds them to his chest. 

 

Bucky’s eyes are wide and they flick across Steve’s face. He licks his lips again and leaves his mouth parted slightly.

 

Steve can’t help but lick his lips too, tasting the salt from his tears. 

 

Bucky’s mouth is bright red, and him and Steve are so close he can feel hot puffs of air against his own whenever Bucky breathes.

 

Steve knows how Bucky feels about him. And Steve has thought endlessly about if he could ever reciprocate those feelings. But now, staring at Bucky’s face this close up, all he can think about his how red and plump Bucky’s perfect, cupid bow lips look in the warm light of the lamp.

 

So he does the most stupid fucking thing possible and leans in the last couple inches.

 

Bucky flinches slightly, and Steve has a split second of  _ absolute panic,  _ but then Bucky relaxes into it and kisses Steve back.

 

Bucky’s lips are warm and soft and pliant under Steve’s, tasting slightly of salt. Steve rests his hands on the side of Bucky’s ribs—still holding his dog tags with his thumb—and feels them shift under his palms as they both move forward. Steve licks at Bucky’s bottom lip, sliding his tongue slowly across the slick skin. 

 

Bucky makes a satisfied noise and lets him in, and their tongues slide against each other, making Steve moan.

 

This seems to jerk Bucky out of their little bubble, though, and he weakly pushes against Steve’s chest after worming his arm under Steve’s. They pull apart, and Steve has to lick away the saliva coating his lips.

 

Bucky’s own lips are shiny and red, and all Steve wants to do is lean forward again.

 

“Steve, wait,” Bucky says softly, breathlessly.

 

Steve swallows, waiting for rejection.

 

“What happened?” he asks. “Where’s this coming from?” He looks over Steve’s face, and reaches up to gently cup Steve’s jaw in his only hand, thumbing over the scratchy skin.

 

“I–” Steve starts. “I don’t know,” he murmurs, letting his hands fall to Bucky’s hips. One of them slides to Bucky’s knee. “You don’t want it?”

 

Bucky laughs quietly under his breath. “Exactly the opposite,” he counters. “You just caught me off guard is all.”

 

“Did I?” Steve whispers back, pressing the tags into Bucky’s leg. 

 

Bucky leans forward again to give Steve a brief, sweet kiss before looking back down at the tags. “I guess I’m not so sure.” He looks into Steve’s eyes. “I’ve loved you for a very long time.”

 

Steve feels the tears starting to build again. “I love you too, Buck.” He gathers Bucky in another bone-crushing hug, letting his chin settle on Bucky’s shoulder. “You’re amazing.”

 

“Such a punk,” Bucky mutters, but it’s full of love and Steve can hear the waver in his voice.

 

Steve shifts a little to get more comfortable, moving his head so it’s right against Bucky’s chest and trying to press into him even closer. “Jerk,” he mumbles, feeling the softness of Bucky’s shirt underneath his cheek.

 

Bucky moves his hand up Steve’s back and in between his shoulder blades. He keeps sliding up until his hand rests at the nape of Steve’s neck, scritching at the downy hairs there. Steve hums contentedly.

 

They stay there until they both fall asleep in each other’s arms, warm and safe and loved.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is also a really short chapter! I'm so sorry, ugh! I'll do better next chapter, I promise. <3

Steve wakes up aching but warm. His neck hurts, his legs hurt, his back hurts. But he’s warm, still wrapped up with Bucky in a tangle of limbs. He lifts his head and looks at Bucky’s face, drooped forward in what looks like an uncomfortable position. 

 

Steve realizes this is the first time he’s woken up with Bucky still here with him. He—with a spike of bravery—leans forward to press his lips to Bucky’s forehead, and when Bucky’s eyelids flutter a little, he kisses his cheek, then his nose.

 

Bucky blinks heavily, his lips quirking up into a small grin. “What’re you doin’ there?” he teases sleepily.

 

Steve hums, pushing his forehead to Bucky’s. “Mornin’,” he replies.

 

Bucky quickly kisses him before continuing to smile dopily. “I can’t believe this is real,” he whispers, searching Steve’s eyes like he expects him to pull back any second.

 

“I love you,” Steve assures him, revelling in the spark of warmth curling in his belly at the words.

 

“Love you too, but would you mind moving? I can’t feel my legs.” Bucky winces through his smile as Steve frantically backs up to give Bucky more leg room. “Maybe we should go eat anyway,” he suggests.

 

But Steve spots the bag from his new spot on the floor, and he feels a sharp stab of anxiety as he realizes he should come clean to Bucky. “Wait,” he says, grabbing Bucky’s wrist so he doesn’t move anymore.

 

“What, Steve? What is it?” Bucky sounds worried, and Steve figures he should just get it over with.

 

“I need to tell you something.” He shifts so he can rest his hands on top of Bucky’s knees. He stares at his thumbs as they move back and forth. “I–um–there was one night, back at our apartment, when you fell asleep on the couch,” he starts, tentatively glancing up at Bucky through his eyelashes.

 

Bucky looks confused, but he slowly nods. “I think I remember doing that a couple times.”

 

Steve confirms by nodding. “Right, well, one of those times you had your backpack with you. And I–I swear I didn’t mean to, but your notebook was open, and–” He stops, licking his dry lips.

 

Bucky’s breath comes out harshly. “You read what I wrote in my notebook?” he asks quietly, disbelievingly. Betrayed.

 

Steve nods once. “I’m so sorry.”

 

“I–why? Why’d you do it?”

 

Steve looks up at him, noting the flush on his cheeks and the warning hard glint in his eyes. “Because I was curious. Because I saw the first few lines and I couldn’t stop.”

 

Bucky looks down at the ground. “Oh.”

 

“I’m sorry, Buck,” he says again. “There’s no excuse. I shouldn’t have done it.”

 

Bucky nods. “I mean, I’m not happy about it, but it doesn’t matter anymore, I guess,” he tells Steve. “Not really.”

 

“Are you sure?” Steve asks doubtfully, sliding his hands up to rest on Bucky’s waist. 

 

Bucky nods again and reassures him with a smile. He rests his hand on top of Steve’s. “Really. Now can we get breakfast?”

 

Steve laughs and gets onto his knees, letting Bucky use his arm to keep him stable as he also gets up. “Needy,” he mutters good-naturedly once they’re on their feet. He kisses Bucky’s stubbled cheek for good measure.

 

“Sure, Rogers,” Bucky agrees sarcastically, playfully elbowing Steve in the stomach.

 

Steve deals with what he can find in the kitchen to whip up some breakfast. He’s been told multiple times by Bucky throughout his lifetime that he’s not the best cook— _ Steve, I’d rather be eating the scraps the upstairs neighbors feed to that alley dog _ —but he tries his best, anyway. And it's not like Bucky wouldn't eat what he made back in their old apartment. He had made some pretty crispy bacon if he says so himself. There’s not a lot in the fridge, but eggs seem simple enough.

 

And he manages not to burn them, so that’s a plus.

 

Bucky and him eat in companionable silence, other than Bucky’s smartass comments about his eggs thrown in here and there.

 

It’s nice, Steve thinks, before his thoughts drift to how awful he’d been treating himself before Bucky was out of cryo. But the important thing is that he’s okay now. He’s  _ really  _ okay. Bucky’s lips are super okay.

 

Bucky kicks his calf under their small, two-person table. “Stop looking at me like that,” he mutters around his eggs, which, if they’re as bad as Bucky kept saying they were, he doesn’t understand why he's still eating them.

 

Steve blinks, coming back to himself. “Huh?”

 

Bucky snorts, shakes his head and still continues to shovel eggs into his mouth. “What were you thinkin’ about?” he tries again.

 

“You,” he answers simply. As simple as breathing.

 

Bucky looks up at him, fork stopping halfway to his mouth in midair. “Fucking sap,” he responds, bringing the fork all the way up.

 

They spend the next few minutes chatting, like old times. And it’s good. It’s simple. Until there’s a sharp knock at the apartment door that pops their little bubble of bliss.

 

“Team meeting,” Wanda says when Steve opens the door. 

 

He smiles down at her and nods. “Thanks,” he tells her, feeling slightly giddy. The first person he’s seen since he kissed Bucky is Wanda, and it’s a weird thing to think about, but Steve looks at her and she has no idea. Bucky is his and his only, and Steve is Bucky’s. No one needs to know.

 

“Right, well,” she says awkwardly, shuffling away with a worried glance tossed over her shoulder when Steve doesn’t respond. 

 

He does react eventually, though. Closes the door shut with a gentle click before turning back to Bucky to repeat the message.

 

Bucky stares down at the last remains of his eggs and stands up to put his plate in the sink. “Let’s head down, then,” he says to Steve.

 

Steve gets close enough to cup Bucky’s sharp, stubbly jawline in his hands. He places a light kiss against his lips that taste of—decent, in Steve’s opinion—eggs. They taste even better on Bucky’s lips.

 

Bucky makes a small noise of surprise, but quickly kisses back before Steve pulls away. He smiles dazedly at Steve. “Is this gonna be a new thing now?” he asks, running his fingertips lightly up and down Steve’s ribs.

 

“Why, you like it?” Steve responds teasingly, giving his cheek a quick peck.

 

Bucky hums. “A lot, actually. We gotta get going, though.”

 

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, but he doesn’t make any moves to start.

 

“You’re such a punk,” Bucky tells him, skirting out of Steve’s hold to walk to the door. “The faster we get down there the faster we come back up.

 

Steve dutifully follows Bucky out of the apartment. 

Everyone’s waiting for them by the time they make it down, eyeing them both as they hurry in late. Even Khamsa, standing rigid in the corner, raises her eyebrows.

 

T’Challa makes sure everyone is sitting and listening before beginning to speak. “There’s an unregistered citizen living on the edge of the Wakandan border. I sent one of my higher-ups to go and scope them out and gather intel. Turns out he’s Hydra. I’m assuming you all will take care of it, perhaps get some information off of him?”

 

Bucky’s body stiffens, spine straightening from its slouched position.

 

“How far out?” Sam asks, reaching to the papers T’Challa offers him.

 

“An hour or two at most,” T’Challa tells him. “Very secluded, right on the edge of a forest.”

 

Sam nods, quickly skimming the words in front of him. “You want us to leave tomorrow?” he checks, obviously going off something he read. “That doesn’t give us a lot of time for prep.”

 

“No need,” T’Challa assures him. “We’ve got a quinjet all set up for you, with a stocked arsenal.”

 

“You want us to bring him in?” Steve asks.

 

“Yes. We’ve got a supermax not too far from here. I think he’d fit in quite well over there.” T’Challa smirks. “I can trust you to do this? This is your first mission as a new team.”

 

“We’ve worked together before. We work quite well as a team,” Wanda joins in with a smile. 

 

Steve watches Bucky stare straight ahead, eyes locked on nothing. “Why’s the agent in Wakanda?” he asks, voice small and quiet.

 

T’Challa sighs slightly. “I’m not entirely sure, but Hydra seems to be following you or Steve. Or both. There’s been more accounts of agents since the newspaper was released with you both on the cover. Unfortunately, that’s why you were kicked out of your home.”

 

Bucky releases a breath, head bobbing in a jerky nod. Steve sneaks his hand onto Bucky’s thigh from under the table and squeezes gently. Bucky’s tight facial expression relaxes at the small pressure.

 

“You’ll be joining us?” Wanda asks T’Challa, peering over at the papers in Sam’s grip.

 

“You’ll be by yourselves on this one,” he tells her. “Having too many people won’t be the best tactic. But Khamsa will pilot you. She’s on strict orders not to engage, not that she doesn’t know how to fight,” he says.

 

Steve watches from the corner of his eye as Khamsa’s mouth raises into a sly grin. 

 

“And Captain, I’ve decided it would be best for you to assume the role of team leader for this mission. If you’re willing, of course,” T’Challa adds.

 

Steve blinks before replying. “I’d love to.” He nods, a bit dumbly.

 

“Thank you, Steve. You’re all free to go then. Meet in the hangar at 0900 tomorrow morning. If you’re late, Khamsa will leave without you.”

 

Sam stands up first to hand back the papers, Wanda following. Steve digs his thumb into Bucky’s leg to grab his attention, but the only indication that Bucky notices is a slight jerk of his head. 

 

“Buck,” Steve murmurs into his ear as he stands up, glancing over at T’Challa to make sure they’re not drawing any attention.

 

Bucky moves slowly as he gets up, looking at Steve. His eyes are sad. Steve places a hand at the small of his back to encourage him to start walking.

 

Sam gives Steve a strange look, but Steve just passes it off with a small shake of his head, guiding Bucky with his hand.

 

They get back to their apartment and as soon as Steve closes the door Bucky whispers, “I thought it was over.”

 

“Oh,” Steve whispers back. He takes Bucky’s limp hand and leads him over to the couch, gently pushing on his shoulders until he sits.

 

“Sorry,” Bucky mumbles belatedly, blinking slowly.

 

“No, no, don’t.” Steve sighs and carefully raises his hand to cup Bucky’s cheek. “You know you don’t have to go,” he says.

 

Bucky finally meets his eyes. He reaches up to take Steve’s hand away from his face, tangling their fingers together instead. “I have to go,” he says firmly. “I just thought…I thought I was done.” He laughs bitterly. “Clearly I was too naive.”

 

Steve gives him a sympathetic look. “You weren’t. Hydra’s just sneakier than we thought.”

 

“Yeah,” Bucky breathes out, looking down to both of their interlocked fingers. 

 

“You’re all right with going?” Steve checks.

 

Bucky nods. “I want to finish them off. And I know how.” He shrugs. “We need intel off of this guy; I’ll be able to get it.”

 

“Okay,” Steve murmurs. 


	9. Chapter 9

By 0917, the quinjet is up in the air with its metal belly full of weapons, tac gear, and people.

 

For Steve, the Captain America getup is long gone, along with Sam’s Falcon gear. Even Scott’s shrink suit is gone for now. Scott and Sam will eventually get their gear back, after they’re tested and deemed safe after being in Ross’ possession, but Steve’s not sure he wants his own suit back. For now, they’re all wearing different versions of similar black tactical gear, and it works, and Steve likes the downplay from his Captain America suit. Black is a lot less noticeable and distracting than red, white, and blue.

 

Bucky sits rigidly next to him, leaning back against a window with his eyes closed. Steve can feel the heat of his thigh pressed up by his own, even through the heavy tac gear. He watches Bucky’s chest rise up and down softly with each breath, and has the strange, sudden urge to kiss him. He can’t at the moment, clearly, but it’s something he’s allowed to do now, and it feels pretty damn good.

 

“How far out are we going?” Sam asks, not talking to anyone in particular. 

 

“Not far. Twenty minutes or so from here on out,” Khamsa replies from the pilot’s seat. 

 

Steve watches from the corner of his peripheral vision as Bucky opens only one eye to glance around suspiciously at the jet’s interior. “We should go over the plan again,” he suggests. “I don’t wanna screw it up. Hydra’s full of sneaky bastards and this guy could easily slip under our radar and escape.”

 

Steve nods in agreement. “Sam’s on guard duty. He’ll go first to make sure everything’s clear before sending Wanda in. She’ll stall him long enough for you and I to search the cabin.” Steve stops to shrug. “After that we just need to tranq and cuff him.”

 

“There’s no one else around his safehouse?” Wanda questions.

 

Sam answers first. “Nope. It’s a stupid decision if you ask me. No witnesses means no one to help.” He huffs out a sarcastic laugh. “Got himself found real easily too.”

 

“It makes it easier for us,” Bucky says. “Their mistake, our gain.”

 

“What’s this guy hiding from anyway?” Wanda asks, idly fiddling with the zipper on her combat jacket.

 

“Hydra sent him to spy on T’Challa a few weeks ago. He’s got more intel on him than his staff does. But T’Challa’s a smart guy. He found out about it a few days after Hydra set up camp,” Sam tells her. “Guess he’s been putting off dealing with it until he had an actual team ready.”

 

Steve’s eyebrows scrunch together. “How do you know all this?”

 

Sam shrugs nonchalantly. “He and I’ve been talking. He’s a good, interesting guy.”

 

“He tried to kill me,” Bucky says flatly.

 

Sam nods. “Like I said, he’s a good guy.”

 

Steve lets out a whooshing breath and looks away.

 

* * *

 

The Wakandan jungle is a thick, dense, humid mass of tropical plants and loud animals. Steve can hear one bird in particular, not far away, wailing its little lungs out into the wet air. Again and again and again. It’s shrill cry permeates the sticky atmosphere at an annoying rate.

 

Steve feels his fingers twitch, trying not to cover his ears.

 

Bucky and him are still by the quinjet, waiting for the signal from Wanda. He adjusts his utility belt as he pulls out his SIG Sauer, examining it before clicking off the safety. Bucky watches him, his own M24 slung across his back.

 

“Did you clean that since you last used it?” Bucky asks gruffly.

 

Steve’s grip tightens where it’s cradling the gun, slightly ashamed at being caught. “Uh.”

 

Bucky blows a gust of air out through his nose. “Of course. You should really start taking better care of your guns, Steve. Especially now that you’re back into missions.”

 

“It was just this once,” Steve defends. “I’m a little out of practice.”

 

Bucky’s gaze travels up and to the trees, approximately to where the distressing bird call is coming from. He slugs his rifle up over his head and flicks the safety off before promptly aiming and shooting.

 

The shot rings out as it hits tree bark, echoing throughout the forest. Multiple colorful birds emerge from the canopy at the sudden noise, but one catches Steve’s eye, different from the others. It’s small and gray and flies in a different direction from the other flock. He nods towards it. 

 

“I think that’s our little alarm buddy,” he says.

 

Bucky watches it fly away. “You’re lucky I didn’t shoot it.”

 

Steve snorts. “I don’t care what you do with that thing, as long as it’s quiet.”

 

“Kill shot it is.” Bucky nods, satisfied.

 

“Too late now,” Steve mutters, sliding his gaze over the now empty sky as the birds fly out of view.

 

Bucky hums, shouldering his rifle and taking a quick scan of the jungle floor. “How much longer do you think Sam and Wanda’ll be?” he checks.

 

“A few minutes, maybe.” Steve shrugs. “Why? Running out of patience?”

 

“Maybe,” he says vaguely. “Or maybe I wanted to do this.” He suddenly surges towards Steve, pulling him into a heated kiss.

 

Steve makes a shocked, surprised sort of sound, before melting into it and cupping Bucky’s jaw with both hands. Bucky wraps his arm around Steve’s waist, keeping them snugly pressed together. He feels Bucky’s tongue start to expertly work it’s way to Steve’s lips, licking along the edges before Steve opens up and lets him in.

 

They wrestle tongues for a bit, until Bucky lets out a small, breathy moan. Steve echoes one back, reluctantly pulling away so he can messily trail kisses down Bucky’s jaw and neck. He feels Bucky’s hand curl further into his side.

 

“Steve,” he breathes out, sounding like a warning, but the way he tilts back his head, exposing and inviting, tells a different story. “We should stop.”

 

“Hmm.” 

 

Bucky laughs, snaking his hand up to Steve’s chest to push him back. “Steve.”

 

He lifts his head, looking at Bucky with blown pupils. He reaches up to smooth Bucky’s bottom lip over with his thumb. “Yeah?”

 

“Not that I don’t like this, but now’s not the best time.”

 

Steve sighs, resigned. “I know, but that was fun.” 

 

Bucky quirks a smile, holding Steve’s face in his hand. “It was. And we are definitely not finished here.” He darts forward for one last, brief kiss. Steve tries to follow when he pulls back, but Bucky stops him again, still smiling. “I can’t believe I get to do this now.”

 

Steve grins back, feeling giddy. “Me either.”

 

“I love you,” Bucky mumbles.

 

And Steve—Steve’s never been happier. He watches Bucky’s lips, curved into a smile and bitten dark red. He opens his own mouth, ready to spill his heart out to the man he loves, when there’s a sharp crackle in his ear.

 

Wanda’s voice comes through, gritty and uneven through the static. “The cabin seems clear. He’s not even here.”

 

Steve presses his finger to the comm in his ear, looking to the ground as he responds. “Clear to enter?”

 

“All clear,” she responds.

 

He looks to Bucky. “Let’s go,” he tells him, jerking his head in the general direction of the cabin. “It’ll be a ten minute walk at most.”

 

“Yeah?” Bucky asks, smug.

 

“Yeah, jerk. No funny business.”

 

Bucky huffs, sarcastically indignant. “Then what am I even doing here?” He shakes his head, starting to take small steps into the thickness of the trees. “Fucking punk.”

 

“I love you too.”

The cabin looks barely lived in; barren of any furniture. There’s a desk against the wall, drawers open haphazardly and a few loose papers scattered around. The rest of the place looks the same, unorganized and empty.

 

“Looks like he heard we were coming,” Sam says, toeing at an upside down crate.

 

“Think he was dumb enough to leave some files behind?” Bucky questions, bent over a desk drawer and rifling through a folder stuffed with papers.

 

Steve lets his eyes wander around the upturned room. “Maybe,” he decides on. “Wanda,” he says, and she jerks her head up from where she had been searching the bookcase on the far wall. “Let’s go check out the bedrooms.”

 

“Yes, sir.” She mockingly salutes him, but smiles the second her hand drops back to her side. “Come on, then.” She spins on her heel, casually walking down the short hallway.

 

“That’s some dame you got yourself there, Rogers,” Bucky says from behind him. Steve can hear the grin in his voice.

 

“Shut up. She’s just a kid,” he tells him, stalking after Wanda without looking back. 

 

He hears Sam mutter, “Jesus, Barnes, they’re like siblings.”

 

“Don’t talk to me,” Bucky says.

 

Steve sighs and closes the bedroom door behind him, shutting the noise of incessant bickering out. Wanda’s in a crouch examining under the stripped, wire frame bed. 

 

“I’m actually kind of glad you asked me in here,” she says, catching Steve off guard.

 

“What?”

 

She stands back up, dusting dirt off her knees. “I’ve got questions for you I’m not sure Sam or Bucky would enjoy hearing.”

 

Steve stares at her, trying to calculate what she’s getting at. “What?” he says again, voice notched up slightly higher.

 

Wanda breaks out into a mischievous smile, followed by a contained chuckle. “Don’t look so worried, Steve. I just wanted to know why I heard some pretty strange—and intense—noises when I turned my comm on earlier.”

 

“Uh,” Steve says intelligently, before snapping his jaw shut. “It was probably just static,” he defends weakly, voice giving out.

 

Wanda hums, playing along. “And does static usually sound so—I don’t know—erotic?”

 

A sound makes it’s way out of Steve’s mouth, one he’s not too proud of. “Oh,” he whispers. “Um, we were just–I mean, it was–” he stutters helplessly, dumbstruck by the slowly growing smile on Wanda’s face.

 

She bursts out laughing. “Calm down, Steve. I’m just messing with you.” She walks towards him and lays a delicate hand on his bicep. “You sure do get freaked out. But seriously, you and James? So cute. When did that happen? I feel like I would have noticed earlier. And Sam told me you kissed the Carter girl? Does Bucky know?” She rambles for a bit while Steve catches his breath.

 

“Uh, it’s sort of a new thing,” he tells her quietly, folding his arms self-consciously.

 

“Aw, well I’m happy for you two,” she says, voice sincere and soft.

 

“Thanks,” he mumbles, eyes downcast. 

 

“Okay!” she says excitedly, clapping her hands together with a bright smack. “Let’s keep looking, shall we?” Wanda pulls back from him and heads over to a dresser with the drawers all pulled out.

 

“Okay.” Steve glances at her once more before searching the walls for hidden bugs. He spends a good five minutes probing the cracks and divots embedded in the old, cracked wooden walls, but he doesn’t find anything.

 

“I think it’s clear,” Wanda tells him, stepping out of the closet.

 

“He must’ve taken everything with him,” Steve concludes, chewing on his bottom lip. “Damn it.”

 

Wanda steps forward, patting him gently on his back. “Maybe Sam and Bucky found something,” she offers, stepping over to the door.

 

That’s when Steve catches it. He lunges forward and pulls her back a bit. “Hang on,” he mutters. She yelps a little, taken aback. Steve tests the hardwood planks by lightly stomping on them, trying to distinguish where it was Wanda stepped.

 

Once he’s pretty sure he’s found it, judging by the slight bounce, he pushes Wanda back and slams his foot into the ground. The floor splinters with a loud crack, and he feels Wanda flinch. He nearly trips in the hole he’s made, trying to pry his foot out from the mess of wooden shards.

 

The door flies open, and both he and Wanda jolt.

 

“What the hell was that?” Bucky demands, quickly followed by a harried looking Sam.

 

“We found something,” Steve explains, kneeling down to wipe the splintered mess away. There’s a small hollow underneath the mess, containing a thick, leather bound notebook, tied closed with a thin, ropy string. “This is probably important,” Steve guesses, turning it over in his hands.

 

“Probably,” Bucky echoes, stepping closer to get a better look.

 

Steve fumbles with the twine for a few moments until the knot finally loosens enough for him to pull it off. He gets up off his knees so everyone can see. He pries open the old book, the thick cover protesting with an almost creaking sound.

 

The first, yellowed page is a mess of smudged writing in another language. And Steve knows enough basic Russian to make out a few words, but not enough to read a complete sentence.

 

“Let me,” Bucky mutters, already grabbing the notebook from Steve’s hands. He flips through a few pages, mumbling softly to himself in Russian as he reads and rereads lines. When he stops around halfway through, he grunts and nods. “There’s a chief of mission stationed in Samara.”

 

“What’s the mission?” Sam asks, peeking at the book with a confused expression.

 

Bucky nearly growls. “They want to start up the Winter Soldier Program again.” He glances down at the notebook one more time before snapping it shut and shoving it into his jacket. “We have to go to Russia.”

 

“Bucky,” Steve says lowly. “Maybe that’s not the best idea.”

 

Bucky glares at him. “We have to stop them from getting any further than they’ve already gotten.”

 

“Maybe we should talk to T’Challa first,” Wanda suggests carefully, eyeing Steve and Bucky.

  
“Fine,” Bucky relents shortly. Steve clenches his jaw.


	10. Chapter 10

T’Challa sends them to Russia.

 

“You’ll need a bigger team,” he says, a few days later, when they’re all gathered around the conference table.

 

Steve glances up. “Are Scott and Clint joining us?”

 

T’Challa shakes his head. “They’ve agreed to undercover missions on American soil only. I’ll be sending someone else.”

 

Bucky looks over at him, and Steve thinks nothing of it.

 

“And of course, Captain, you’ll still be leading this one.”

 

Steve nods and takes his role.

 

T’Challa gives them mission details and debriefs them before dismissing them.

 

“I can’t believe he’s sending us to Russia,” Steve mutters to Bucky, leaning over and sweeping his eyes over the hallway to make sure no one’s there.

 

Bucky shrugs. “Hydra’s a bunch of sadistic jackasses. I’ll be happy to be the one to wipe them out.” 

 

Steve takes one last look at the hall before darting in to give Bucky a quick peck to his cheek. “I know,” he murmurs, quieter. “I love you.”

 

Bucky grins at him. “I know,” he echoes.

 

Back in their apartment, Steve goes in search of a sturdy duffel bag while Bucky piles all of their guns onto the coffee table. 

 

“How many bags should we bring?” Steve calls out from down the hall, looking at their mess of a closet.

 

The massive pile of weaponry stares back at Bucky. “At least two big ones,” he says, loud enough for Steve to hear. Steve comes back and tosses a fairly decent sized red bag at Bucky for the guns, and throws the other gray one on the couch for later.

 

“We’re gonna clean these aren’t we,” he guesses. 

 

Bucky nods. “I’ll get the oil and the solvent.”

 

“Brushes too?”

 

He makes a vague affirmative noise.

 

Steve sighs and settles down in front of the coffee table, back against the couch with his legs crossed. He picks up what he’s pretty sure is his own gun and starts to disassemble it, laying the pieces down in front of him.

 

Bucky comes up behind him and arranges himself on the floor next to him, setting the cleaning stuff in between their legs. He drags a rifle from the pile and sets in on his lap, carefully picking it apart.

 

They sit in silence for awhile, save for the slick sounds of the gun oil or the click of metal on metal. He catches Bucky glancing at him every other moment or so. He knows he’s not doing a good job. He’s never really cleaned his guns before, and hadn't had a reason to until Bucky started badgering him about it.

 

Finally, he cracks. “What?” he says indignantly, turning his full attention onto Bucky and letting the gun fall into his lap.

 

Bucky sighs, still intently focused on his gun. “I think you know what,” he tells him lightly.

 

“Come on, Buck,” Steve argues. “I’ve never had to clean guns before. Give me some credit.”

 

Bucky reaches over after setting his gun down. “Give it.” 

 

Steve willingly hands it to him, and he immediately takes over with nimble fingers. “We gotta clean all of these?” he checks, sounding petulant.

 

Bucky hums an affirmative, ignoring his tone.

 

Steve slips his hand over to Bucky’s knee until it rests on the inside crook. “Maybe we could do somethin’ else,” he offers.

 

“Like what?”

 

“I dunno,” Steve says, but he leans over and gently kisses Bucky’s jaw, knowing exactly what he wants to do.

 

Bucky chuckles, still working on Steve’s gun. “You cheeky bastard. I’m busy. And you really should be too, but I’ll give you a break since you don’t know what a gun is.”

 

“I know how to handle one,” Steve says, shifting to gain better access to Bucky. He’s got both hands on his leg now, one on the knee and another sitting dangerously close on his upper thigh. He kisses and nips along Bucky’s jaw line, peppering a few on his neck as he moves downward. 

 

“Yeah?” He finally sets the glock down and lifts his head to the side to let Steve continue easier. Steve hums, sucking on a particular spot of delicately stretched skin on Bucky’s collarbone. “Better not let the team see that,” he comments idly. He reaches over to snag Steve’s t-shirt, pulling him closer until he’s nearly on his lap.

 

Steve goes the rest of the way, effortlessly hitching his leg over Bucky so he’s settled snugly in his lap. Bucky’s hand runs itself up and down Steve’s side, and he hums in content before moving back up to Bucky’s lips. 

 

“Isn’t this better than cleaning guns?” He asks softly before leaning in the rest of the way. Bucky sighs into his mouth, meaningful. Steve loves it. Absolutely revels in the fact that he and Bucky do this now and it’s okay. Definitely more than okay, he thinks as he sucks on Bucky’s bottom lip.

 

“Hey there, Captain,” Bucky says into his mouth. 

 

Steve blushes, realizing he’s gotten a little more than turned on. “Um, sorry–sorry, I–”

 

Bucky laughs, then, wrapping his hand around the back of Steve’s neck. “What did you think this was gonna lead to, doll?” he asks, grinning with amusement.

 

“I–” Steve cuts himself off before he embarrasses himself any further. He lowers his head onto Bucky’s shoulder where he scritches gently at the soft downy hairs there. He kisses the crown of Steve’s head. 

 

“It’s all right. We don’t have to do anything. I like where we are,” he assures.

 

Steve turns his head so he can kiss at Bucky’s neck again. “Trust me, that’s not the problem.”

 

Bucky opens his mouth, probably to ask more questions, when a sharp knock pierces through their little bubble.

 

Steve sighs heavily and slides off of Bucky’s lap. “Hang on,” he mutters, standing up making his way to the door. He’s really pissed off at whoever’s behind that door. He opens it about three inches so he can see through, and is seriously startled.

 

“Sharon?”

 

She smiles warmly at him. “Hi, Steve. T’Challa called and asked me to come on your next mission with you.”

 

Steve flushes. “Uh, yeah, we–uh, we were a bit short. Of, um, people.”

 

Sharon looks at him with a slightly concerned expression. “Uh, yeah, he mentioned that. I just wanted to stop by and say hi. It’s been awhile,” she says.

 

Steve feels obligated to open the door to a reasonable amount. “Has it? I guess it has. I was just packing up. We leave tomorrow, you know.”

 

“I’m aware,” Sharon tells him. “I’ll leave you to it, then. See you around.” 

 

Steve barely even has time to register before she’s leaning in to give him a brief kiss. She gives him one last goodbye before wandering off. Steve closes the door and stands, flustered. 

 

“I, um, forgot about her,” he says quietly to the door.

 

“That was hilarious. You’ve never been good with girls, but that was...something else.” 

 

Steve turns back around to see Bucky smiling so big it looks painful. 

 

“Have you–have you ever even  _ liked  _ girls?” Bucky asks.

 

“Yeah,” Steve says shuffling back over to collapse on the couch. “But I like you more.” He tangles his fingers into Bucky’s hair and runs them through the knots.

 

“You really know how to sweet talk me, Rogers,” Bucky says, leaning back into the touch.

 

“What else is new.”

* * *

 

 

They manage to keep their hands off of each other on the jet, and Sharon remains professional and doesn’t give Steve a second glance. 

 

Steve would think—possibly in another situation—that she’s coming across as angry with him, but he knows Sharon is good at her job and doesn’t cross relationships with work. 

 

Steve is thankful; Bucky finds the whole thing absolutely hilarious.

 

Russia is a shocking and drastic difference from Wakanda. At least it wakes him up. 

 

The outside air is brittle and gelid, making his lungs ache with every inhale.

 

When Bucky steps out of the jet, he mutters, “Home sweet home.”

 

Steve is offset, but doesn’t let it show. He just rubs a friendly hand up and down Bucky’s arm. Bucky offers him a dry smile.

 

The hotel they set up camp in is worn down and inconspicuous, nestled in a quiet, dead-end neighborhood at the edge of the city. Samara is a fairly decent town, with just the right amount of people to be kept busy, but not enough to feel crowded. Steve likes it, but not the weather. As soon as they get inside he lets out a relieved breath, a foggy cloud drifting from his lips.

 

“Cold?” Bucky asks as Sam and Sharon check in under fake names.

 

“Obvious?” 

 

Bucky grins. “I’m not too fond of the weather anymore either.”

 

Steve shakes his head, a small smile forming on his face. “Never was. Brooklyn winters were always brutal.”

 

Wanda sidles up next to Steve, clearly soaking up his body heat as she plasters herself to his side. “I thought I was used to the cold,” she says. “Sokovian winters—you don’t know cold until you’ve survived a Sokovian winter. But Wakanda has ruined me.” She laughs. “I miss T’Challa’s mansion.”

 

“Don’t we all,” Sam says, walking back from the check-in desk. He tosses Steve a key, then one to Wanda.

 

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “I don’t get one?” 

 

Sam freezes. “Oh–I just assumed you and Steve would be sharing. I can–I could go get another one?”

 

Bucky smiles, all teeth. “Just joking, man. Calm down a little?”

 

“Come on, Buck. Give him a break,” Steve tells him, wrapping an arm around Wanda’s shivering form. 

 

“Aw, Stevie, you know I can’t do that.” 

 

“Let’s go,” Sharon says with her arms shoved under themselves. “Maybe the rooms have heaters.

 

The rooms do have heaters. Old, spitty, angry heaters.

 

Bucky bumps his hand against the hard metal. The thing churns and makes a concerning sound as it faintly spills out heat. “Russians,” he mutters. 

 

“They’ll have blankets,” Steve offers, though he’s freezing his ass off himself.

 

Bucky turns to the dresser and opens the bottom drawer with the toe of his boot, revealing wads of thick, folded comforters. “Fine,” he relents.

 

He watches as Bucky throws all of the blankets onto the bed before shuffling across the ugly, stained carpet towards him. He’s not exactly ready for the hug that comes his way, but he can’t say he’s surprised either.

 

Bucky curls into him, arm up by Steve’s shoulder blade with his hand fisted into the dense fabric of his coat. His head rests down on Steve’s chest, melding into him. “M’cold,” he murmurs, making Steve chuckle.

 

He brings his arms up and around Bucky’s midsection, encasing him in a warm cocoon of muscle. “Me too,” Steve says softly. “But we should probably get going.” He pulls back an inch. “What time is that guy meeting at the rendezvous point?”

 

“Lemme check,” Bucky says, wiggling out of Steve’s grip. He snags one of their duffels and dumps it onto the bed, quickly zipping it open to pull out the leather book. He leafs through it with his thumb until he finds what he’s looking for. “Tonight at 2000 hours in Detskiy park.” Bucky stops, thinking. “That’s right in the middle of the city.”

 

Steve’s eyebrows crinkle. “Is that significant?”

 

“I’m not sure. But it’s weird, Even weirder if it was a coincidence.” 

 

“It’s probably just a meeting spot,” Steve suggests. “What the hell could be in the middle of the city?”

 

Bucky makes a questioning noise and shrugs his shoulders, still unconvinced. “Who’s coming with tonight, then? All five of us can’t go.”

 

“Who’s the best at keeping still and quiet for long periods of time?”

 

Bucky shifts on his feet. “Me. Not you.” When Steve opens his mouth to protest, Bucky stops him. “Sorry, pal. You’re just a big, bumbling dog who doesn’t know his own size.”

 

Steve frowns, but knows it’s true. “Um, Sharon’s a spy,” he says, trying to ignore Bucky’s comment. “Then Wanda, probably.”

 

Bucky nods, satisfied. “Works for me. You and Sam can stay here and talk about girl things. Oh, and also monitor the park.” Bucky scratches the back of his neck, eyes roaming around the room as if looking for more ideas. “I think that’s it,” he confirms.

 

“Uh, yeah,” Steve adds. “Probably.”

 

Bucky smiles. “This is gonna sound morbid, but I miss this.”

 

“Missions?” 

 

“Yeah. I just miss the time tables and the strict organization.” Bucky sighs. “It helps me feel grounded, you know?”

 

Steve stares, taken aback. “I thought you didn’t want to join this mission team in the first place?”

 

Bucky shrugs nonchalantly. “I didn’t. But the mission’s themselves are good and steady for me. Not so much working under someone else’s control. It’s not so bad when you’re the team leader.”

 

“Okay,” Steve says, “that helps me, I guess.”

 

“The tactics and operation of each mission is the same. Every time. It’s calming.”

 

Steve places his hand on Bucky’s waist, searching his face. “I guess I’m just glad you aren’t miserable,” he decides on.

 

“Me too.” He tosses the book onto the bed, where it lands on the massive blanket pile with a small bounce. He tucks himself into Steve’s side once more, snaking his arm around his waist.

 

Steve likes the safe, encompassing feeling he gets whenever Bucky hugs him, warmth emanating from both of their overheated, serumed bodies. Bucky hums, mouth finding his way above Steve’s collar, where golden skin peeks out. 

 

“Wanna start where we left off?” Bucky asks, already pressing small kisses into his skin.

 

“Buck,” Steve warns, “it’s nearly 6:30. You have to get ready.”

 

Bucky huffs indignantly, but backs off. “Dinner first? Can’t spy on an empty stomach.”

 

“Not sure what they have at the hotel, but I packed some protein bars. We can get takeout later tonight, yeah?” he offers, knowing from experience how hungry he’ll get after not eating for too long. And to his knowledge, neither of them have eaten since before they got on the quinjet.

 

“That’ll work for now,” he says thoughtfully. “Wanna gather up the rest of the team, then?”

 

Steve says, “Yeah, sure,” and kisses his cheek.

 

* * *

Sharon, Bucky, and Wanda head out at 1930 hours, leaving Sam and Steve alone in the comfort of Sam’s small hotel room. They find an old, ratty deck of cards in the nightstand drawer and play any and all two-person card games they can think of with the strange, foreign cards.

 

They’ve both got comms placed snugly in their ears, waiting for any signals, though Steve knows how good of a team he’s sent out.

 

They only get a few, soft spoken words from Sharon about 15 minutes into mindlessly playing cards and trying to figure out what each Russian symbol is. “They’re talking about plans for a new Winter Soldier program,” she whispers as low as she can go. “It doesn’t sound good.”

 

“Hear anything important yet?” Sam asks.

 

“Not horribly important, no, but Bucky planted bugs before they got there. It’s just two guys in suits looking oddly out of place in the middle of the park,” she tells them quietly.

 

“One of them is the chief of staff from the Moscow base,” Wanda pipes up, just as softly. “I think the other is in charge of the Minsk one.”

 

“They’re converging two?” Steve says.

 

Bucky’s voice comes next, low and rough. “Sounds like it. Nothing good.”

 

“Shit, we’ve gotta go,” Sharon says, before there’s an ominous and loud click of the comms shutting off.

 

“No distractions then, huh?” Sam says. He looks at the messy pile of cards in front of them, all stamped with Russian markings. “Uh, Blackjack next?”

 

Steve nods, beginning to gather them up to shuffle. “Sure.”

 

“Right.” Sam picks up a card with a queen on it. “You know what these are?”

 

“Not really.” Steve knows some spoken Russian from whatever’s he’s caught from Bucky, but with the written language he’s completely clueless.

 

“Aw, man. You’d think your Russian assassin of a boyfriend would teach you something,” he remarks idly

 

Steve’s immediately caught off guard by his choice of words. He knows Sam doesn’t mean anything by it, but there’s this silly warmth growing deep in his chest when he says it. “Uh,” is all he manages to get out.

 

Sam stares at him for a moment, trying to calculate what he said. “Oh, sorry, man. I know you’ve got that trouble with him right now. Didn’t mean it like that.”

 

“No, no,” Steve replies immediately. “It’s, um, not you. I just–we actually…” Steve stops for a moment, figuring out how to put it in words. “We talked, actually,” he decides on. 

 

Sam’s face splits into a grin. “Really? And good news, I’m guessing?” 

 

Steve nods, his own smile apparent on his face. “Yeah. I thought about what you said, and it just kind of...grew, you know?”

 

“Yeah, yeah. Congrats, Steve. I’m happy for you. If anyone one deserves this, it’s you and him,” Sam tells him.

 

“Thanks, Sam. It means a lot coming from you.” Steve nimbly shuffles the few cards he’s got in his hands by leafing them into a bridge and letting them settle down again. “So, I don’t really know what we’re doing,” he admits, thumbing through his cards.

 

Sam laughs. “Me either.” He hands his own cards over to Steve. “You’re pretty good at shuffling. Where’d you learn something like that?”

 

Steve shrugs, taking the offered cards. “There wasn’t a lot else to do during the Great Depression. Bucky and I would play cards all the time to keep entertained.”

 

“That’s a great story, grandpa,” Sam says seriously, nodding his head.

 

“Shut up.” Steve flings the cards back at him in a messy array. They end up hitting his chest and falling around his lap. Sam doesn’t even bother picking up the scattered cards, just stands up and brushes the couple jacks clinging to his shirt.

 

The comm in Steve’s ear crackles slightly as he follows Sam’s lead to his feet. “Falcon, Captain,” Wanda’s voice echoes sharply. “The targets have left. I think you’ll be happy with the information they’ve given us.”

 

“Thanks, Wanda,” Sam responds. “Come back to the hotel so you guys can rest. We can discuss Hydra’s plans tomorrow.”

 

“Sounds good,” Sharon’s voice pipes up. 

 

Steve hears Bucky’s faint grunt of affirmation and counts it as good enough. He reaches up to pick the comm out of his ear and goes over to set it on the TV stand. 

 

“So,” Sam says casually from where he’s unsuccessfully trying to kick the playing cards into some kind of pile. “You and Barnes gonna have sex anytime this week?”

 

Steve chokes on air. 

 

“Just wanted a warning. Our rooms share a wall.”

 

* * *

Steve’s already fallen asleep before Bucky gets back to the hotel. He feels the old bed creak and the mattress dip. The army’s made him into a light sleeper; he’s immediately awake and alert. 

 

Bucky’s on the edge of the bed, shucking his muddy boots off to quietly place them on them on the floor before climbing under the heavy blankets.

 

“You good?” is the first thing that tumbles out of Steve’s mouth. 

 

Bucky shifts to face him, the bed frame squeaking in protest. “Yeah, Steve. Don’t worry.” He reaches out with his hand, half blind in the inky black of the room, the only light source coming from a flickering light outside the window that only shines through the slats in the blinds.

 

“Just making sure,” Steve says softly, taking Bucky’s outstretched hand in his own.

 

Bucky’s hand is ice cold. It startles Steve just enough that he makes a noise of surprise. 

 

“What?” Bucky asks, fairly unconcerned.

 

Steve brings his other hand up to encase Bucky’s. He holds it tightly in both hands, rubbing with his thumbs. “Your hand is freezing,” he mumbles.

 

A vague, uninterested grunt comes from the other side of the bed. His fingers twitch in Steve’s warm grip.

 

“Did you even bother wearing gloves?”

 

Another grunt.

 

“So how was it?” Steve’s whispering now, feeling obligated in the dark silence of the room. Like if he talks too loud he’ll disrupt the room himself. There’s no need to say anything louder than a whisper anyway, with Bucky mere inches away from him.

 

“Long. They’ve really got this Winter Soldier Program figured out. They even–” he stops abruptly. Steve waits patiently. Bucky breathes for a few, quiet moments until he softly says, “They talked about new assets. They have the first, experimental subjects picked out. Just a girl and the guy.”

 

“Is that what they were talking about?” Steve questions. “Anything else?”

 

“The girl’s American,” Bucky continues quietly. “Melissa Mallor, I think. And the guy: Ivan Rykov. I don’t know what they’re going to do to them, but it’s not good.” Bucky sucks in a small, wavering breath, and Steve squeezes his hand slightly tighter in what he hopes is a comforting gesture.

 

“Okay,” Steve whispers soothingly. “That’s okay. We’ll figure it out. Why don’t we try to sleep, yeah?”

 

He makes out Bucky’s slight, aborted nod.

 

“Good, good,” he mutters, moving one hand to run his fingers through a stray strand of Bucky’s hair. He moves it from his cheek to behind his ear, keeping his hand there to cup Bucky’s jaw. He leans forward to press a kiss to his forehead. “You’re doing real well, Buck.”

 

Bucky hums, blinking his eyes shut.

 

Steve shifts and maneuvers Bucky until he can rest on Steve’s chest; hear his heartbeat. The bed creaks softly as the old metal is put under the stress of two super soldiers. Bucky moves with him, gently placing his ear over Steve’s heart. His arm is tucked underneath Steve’s body, warm and secure.

 

Steve hooks his arm under Bucky’s shoulder to rub small, consistent circles into his back. Bucky sighs through his nose, content. Steve watches the shadows of his eyelashes flutter when he closes his eyes, and feels a warm, bubbly feeling in his chest. He stops massaging his back so he can run his fingers through the snarled, dark hair instead. It’s soothing and methodical, and he starts to drift off himself.

 

He’s nearly asleep, too, when there’s a slight and muffled thump from the wall behind them. It’s not quite loud enough to startle him awake, but his eyes do blink open, groggy from the in between stage of consciousness and sleep. He waits warily for something else to happen and starts up the motion of rubbing Bucky’s back again.

 

After about a minute of silence, there’s finally a louder, more pronounced clatter that has Bucky jerking out of Steve’s hold. “Wha’s happen’?” he mumbles, now sitting all the way up.

 

Steve copies him. “Dunno. Should probably check it out,” he says.

 

“Smack the wall if you need somethin’,” Bucky tells him before laying back down.

 

“Got it.” Steve lets his legs slip out from under the covers and stands up. He feels bare with only boxers and a wife beater on. Not even any shoes to protect his feet against the gross and grainy carpet.

 

He proceeds to the door, though, ignoring the hard yet somehow squishiness of the carpet under his feet. He can’t remember if the room next to theirs is Wanda’s or Sharon’s, but he disregards the  _ Do Not Disturb  _ sign and knocks.

 

He’s met with silence, so he takes his chances and tries the handle. It’s locked. He sighs, starting to get worried. 

 

He heads back into his own room and to the duffels, stacked neatly by the closet. Kneeling down next to them, he starts to rummage through one of the side pocket. 

 

“What’re you doing?” Bucky’s sleep-foggy voice asks from over by the bed.

 

“Where are your hair pin things?” 

 

“Gray bag. Side pocket.”

 

Steve pulls his hand out of the red bag’s pocket and tries the other one. He finds a bundle of the little pins waiting for him. He chooses one before dashing back to the locked door, getting to his knees to shove the little pin into the keyhole.

 

For once he’s glad this hotel is as old as he is and doesn’t use hotel cards instead of keys.

 

After a minute or two of inexpertly jiggling the pin in and out of place he hears the lock click open and barges inside.

 

He immediately regrets it.

 

Wanda is on the floor in the corner, knees curled up to her chest and hands over her head. Now that he’s through the thick, wooden door he can clearly hear her labored and wheezy breathing.

 

“Wanda,” he mutters, tossing the bent hairpin aside and rushing forward. He stops just short of her, though, careful not to spook her. He slowly lowers himself to the floor in front of her and very cautiously doesn’t touch her. “Wanda,” he repeats, lower and softer. “It’s me. It’s Steve. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

 

Wanda doesn’t react. 

 

He throws caution to the wind and tries the same tactic he does with Bucky. “Wanda, you’re in Samara, Russia on a mission with Sharon, Sam, Bucky, and I. You’re safe in your hotel room. It’s gonna be okay, you hear me? You’re perfectly safe.”

 

She makes a small, pitiful sound, so at least he knows she’s heard. 

 

He reaches a hand forward and gently lays it on her shin, which is covered up by fuzzy pajama pants. She starts a bit, but slowly lowers one of her hands away from her face so she can see. As soon as she sees him, she shudders and seems to come back to herself a little.

 

“Wanda,” Steve tries again. 

 

He can see her nod under her arms. “I–I–” she manages to choke out, before clamming up again, her breathing hard and uneven. 

 

“That’s okay,” Steve soothes, running his hand up and down her shin in a soft grip.

 

“Sorry,” she gasps. “I’m–”

 

“Hey, hey. Don’t do that,” Steve tells her. “You’re fine, okay? Can I come closer?”

 

She doesn’t do anything for a moment, and Steve thinks she won’t, until she answers him by flinging herself into his chest. He immediately responds by wrapping both arms securely around her. She clenches the fabric of his tank top in her fists as she curls into him.

 

“I, um–” she starts, sounding strangled. “I had a nightmare.”

 

Steve nods, resting his chin on her head. “That’s okay,” he assures her. “I get them too.”

 

“They, uh–I was in the jacket. The, um, straitjacket.”

 

Steve struggles to understand for a second through her accent, which has gotten heavier and sloppier, but once he does, he freezes. The straitjacket from the Raft. Where she was locked up because of him. 

 

Wanda gets nightmares because of him.

 

“I am so, so sorry,” he murmurs, unsure of what else to say.

 

She shakes her head into his chest. “Not you,” she tells him. “Never you.”

 

He holds her tighter and doesn’t say anything else. Arguing is the last thing he wants to do right now. 

 

He shifts them so she can comfortably sit in between his legs. He presses a kiss to her temple and holds it there, rocking back and forth slightly like he’s comforting a child. It seems to work, though. Soon enough her breathing evens out enough so that she’s not gasping for air anymore. She’s still heaving slightly, tears continuously falling and soaking Steve’s tank.

 

They sit together for a couple minutes in silence until Steve deems Wanda stable enough to talk. “What happened?”

 

“I just–I miss him,” she whispers, barely audible. She ducks her head lower.   
  


“Pietro?” Steve whispers back, holder her even tighter. 

 

She nods, a small whine escaping and crescendoing into a soft sob. He starts rocking her again, holding the back of her head and threading his fingers through her tangled, frizzy brown hair. 

 

“God, Wanda,” Steve utters. “I’m so sorry.”

 

“I miss him,” she repeats, voice breaking.

 

“I know,” he tells her. “Me too.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heed the tags for this one! Steve and Bucky have some fun ;)

Wanda doesn’t say anything to anyone in the morning. She takes her coffee from Sharon and sits down at the table like normal, but doesn’t contribute to the conversation. Steve lets her be, but he’s sure both him and Wanda notice everyone else’s worried glances.

 

It takes a half hour and a few cups of coffee for them to get serious and focus. 

 

Wanda starts, beginning with a deep breath. “His name is Arkady Koskov. His partner in Minsk is Makar Igoshin. They’ve already got assets picked out for trials,” She explains.

 

Steve stares at the cold dregs of his coffee, listening to information he already knows. Bucky sits next to him at the small dining table, only meant for four people at most. Sam sits at the end, sitting on a chair dragged in from Sharon’s room.

 

She sits across from Steve and next to Wanda, both women still adorning pajamas and frizzy hair. Bucky and him look similar; hair disarray and dark bags under their eyes. Sam seems most awake, eyes least sluggish-looking and actually dressed in jeans and a jacket.

 

“Trials?” Sam clarifies.

 

“The experimental process,” Bucky corrects, voice a harsh croak in the early morning. “They need guinea pigs before they start making the final soldiers.”

 

“All right.” Sam nods in a show of understanding. “Anything else? Locations?”

 

“Arkady Koskov’s office is on the east side of town. I wrote down an address,” Wanda comments, “somewhere.”

 

“So, we bug his office?” Steve interrupts.

 

“Sounds like a decent plan.” Sharon takes a small sip from her coffee mug, looking down into it. “We find out where the actually bases are and take ‘em down before anyone gets hurt.”

 

“We should act fast, then,” Bucky says. “They’ve probably already started experimenting with different drugs on the trial assets, if not actual assets. They have to figure out how strong their blood is, what they can withstand.”

 

The table dissolves into silence, everyone avoiding eye contact. 

 

Steve clears his throat. “Today, then?”

 

Wanda nods. “Now or never.”

 

“Koskov’s office is in an office building filled with Hydra rats,” Sharon explains. “It’ll be difficult to not be seen.”

 

“We’ll be fine,” Sam assures her. “We know our way around.”

 

* * *

Wanda and Sharon walk into the office building wearing awfully tight dresses and small, thin jackets. Steve waits at the edge of the building with a comm in his ear. Sam had agreed to sit inside in the waiting room, while Bucky posted himself at the back entrance.

 

“Здравствуй,” Wanda starts, since she knows more Russian than Sharon. Her voice is sugar sweet through Steve’s ear, and he can almost hear her fake, plastic smile. “Я. Алла Вицин. Это моя сестра Елена. У нас назначена встреча."

 

Steve knows enough Russian to pull together what she’s saying.  _ My sister and I have an appointment.  _ He can faintly hear the person she’s talking to reply. 

 

“Отлично ,” is Wanda’s response. _Excellent_ _.  _

 

There’s a few silent beats before Sharon whispers, “We’re in. When Wanda goes in, I’ll come grab Bucky.”

 

“Entryway’s still clear in here. Just the receptionist giving me looks,” Sam updates. 

 

“Здравствуй.” Wanda cuts through their conversation, clearly talking to someone else. “Я. Алла Вицин?”

 

There’s a muffled response before abrupt silence on Wanda’s end. 

 

Sharon says, “She shut her comm off so we could talk. She’s talking to some guy about rent or something. I don’t know much Russian.”

 

“I’m at exit four,” Bucky tells her. 

 

“Got it. Heading down the stairwell now.”

 

Steve peeks his head around the corner of the building, checking for targets. “Should I come in, Sam?” he checks, trying to keep his voice low.

 

“Go ahead. Tell the receptionist you’re waiting for your wife.”

 

“Affirmative. Sharon?”

 

“Bucky’s in. He’s heading down the stairs.

 

“Koskov’s office is in the lower levels. Who know’s what kind of sick things people would find if he was placed somewhere people could just walk in,” Bucky tells them.

 

When Steve walks into the dirty lobby, he doesn’t look at Sam sitting off to the side, just strides up to the counter and panics, trying to remember his Russian. “Я ищу свою жену, Алла Вицин ?” he asks, very carefully not stuttering over syllables. 

 

“Not bad, Rogers,” Bucky mutters in his ear.

 

Steve tries his hardest not to smile. He leans on one arm against the counter and waits expectantly.

 

“Она с Косковым. Вы должны подождать ,” she tells him. He tries not to take too long to figure out what she’s said.  _ You’ll have to wait.  _

 

“благодаря,” he grunts, pulling away from the counter to take a seat in an uncomfortable looking plastic chair. He’s across and to the right of Sam, and they make brief eye contact through their dark sunglasses.

 

Sharon’s sudden and loud voice cuts through the silence in the comms. “Oh, no, no. I was just waiting for my sister! Um, cестра?”

 

There’s a low, growling voice rumbling in the background in Russian. 

 

Sharon gripes, “Fine, jeez.” Steve sends Sam a raised eyebrow. “Barnes is gonna need some new backup,” she explains. “I just got kicked out.”

 

Just then, Sharon herself strides into the lobby with a purpose, heading straight for the doors at the other end, not sparing a single glance at either Steve or Sam. 

 

She’s good. Well, better than Sam or him.

 

“Room 001,” she says. “Lower level.

 

“I’ll go,” Steve volunteers, talking as quietly as humanly possible. He waits a few seconds before lifting himself out of the chair and back towards the reception desk. “Туалет?” he asks.

 

The secretary glares at him, but gives him directions with a pointed finger and sharp Russian. He nods his thanks before wandering his way towards the back. He passes the bathroom door and continues toeing farther back.

 

He finds the staircase door and slips inside, silently traipsing to the lower floors. Room 001 is on the lowest available floor, and Bucky seems to have already unlocked everything. Steve hides against the grimy, beige wall adjacent to the door.

 

He keeps his body pressed tight to the wall, listening and watching for any Hydra agents nearby. Bucky is completely silent in the next room.

 

He waits patiently for Bucky to finish bugging Koskov’s office, but behind him, he hears obnoxious, clomping footsteps. 

 

“Abort, Bucky. I’ll distract for two minutes at least.”

 

There’s a demanding hand on his shoulder, and he hates himself for flinching. He’ll try his luck in the confused foreigner department. “Je cherche la toilette?”

 

The agent’s face twists in bemusement. He grunts out what Steve knows isn’t a nice phrase in Russian tongue. He lets himself be led away from Koskov’s office and back towards the lobby.

 

It’s an awkward trip back up the stairs.

 

“Bugs secure,” Bucky murmurs in his ear.

 

Steve holds in his sigh of relief.

 

The agent deposits him back where the restrooms actually are, and leaves him be. The receptionist glares at him again as he makes his way across the lobby and out the doors. Outside, he spots Sharon sitting with her legs crossed elegantly, a Russian book in her hand, pretending to read.

 

He slips around the side of the building, undetected, before moving to the back entrance where he knows Bucky will be. 

 

Bucky smiles when they meet up, huffing out a breath. “Bugs are in place, already hooked ‘em up to my laptop.”

 

Steve risks a brief kiss on his stubbled cheek. He doesn’t regret it when Bucky kisses back, smiling the whole time.

 

“Wanda ready yet?” Sharon breathes out.

 

“Still waiting on her yet,” Sam adds quietly. “You guys head back. Don’t wait around. Too suspicious.”

 

“Roger that,” Steve answers. “Keep us updated.”

 

* * *

Bucky’s laptop feed is a mess of uncorrelated Russian mumbling. They play it back at certain times to write down anything important.

 

Koskov is apparently alone in his office for the majority of the day, and he likes to mumble to himself. Unintelligible phrases that most of the time don’t even make sense to Bucky. He’ll scribble some stuff down in his notebook occasionally when he listens to Koskov’s rambling.

 

Steve can’t make sense of it, but he lets Bucky be and talks with Sam about next plan attacks. They figure the best thing to do is to let Bucky decipher Koskov’s plans first before acting on anything.

 

Steve will sometimes listen in, but usually leaves Bucky alone, per his request. He lets Bucky stress over it for two days until he finally comes back with something.

 

He bursts into Sam’s hotel room, notebook in hand. The bags under his eyes are darker and more pronounced than they were yesterday, Steve notices, and his hair is tangled and uncombed. He offers Bucky a seat next to him on the spring couch, but he turns him down.

 

Sam stares at him from over on the bed, some Russian soap opera running for background noise.

 

“Koskov met with Igoshin last night,” Bucky starts, but pauses. “Or, this morning. Really early this morning.” He blinks.

 

“What’d you hear?” Steve encourages, trying to gently break Bucky out of his stupor with a gently tone.

 

“Um, a lot,” he says. “They mentioned Siberia. And Zola was a recurrent subject. But they have a dinner party planned tomorrow at the theater hall downtown.”

 

Steve raises his eyebrows. “Tomorrow? How are we supposed to get in?”

 

“I can get a written invitation for all of us. No problem,” Bucky assures him.

 

Sam looks shocked. “And, how, exactly?”

 

“Koskov prints a password on his invitations. They check them at the gate.” Bucky scratches behind his ear, thinking. “I think he mentioned something about a code yesterday, but I’d have to check my notes.”

 

“So, we make our own invitations, even though we don’t know what they look like?” Sam checks. “Sounds like we’re just asking Hydra to find us.”

 

“It should be fine as long as we’ve got the code,” Bucky says. “Which we have.”

 

Naturally, Sam’s immediate response is, “I don’t trust you.”

 

Bucky scowls at him. “Then find your own damn way to get into the party.”

 

“All right,” Steve says frantically, afraid of another idiotic spat between the two pig-headed men. “Let’s just use Bucky’s method for the dinner party. He knows more about Hydra than any of us.”

 

Sam looks back to the TV. “Fine,” he mutters.

 

Bucky doesn’t say anything else.

 

* * *

Steve’s eyes shock open at exactly 2:13 AM. He knows because the first thing he does is look to the clock resting on the nightstand.

 

He’s covered in a thin layer of cold sweat, and his stomach feels queasy. He checks to make sure Bucky is still asleep before shuffling out from under the covers. The strange carpet is unwelcome under his bare feet, and he tries not to think about it as he heads to the bathroom.

 

One glance in the mirror has him looking away. His face is pale and gaunt, shadows playing at the contours of his cheeks. The bags under his eyes are dark and purple, and his lips are cracked. He avoids looking at himself again to start shucking off his clothes.

 

He prays to the god of creaky shower pipes that this one will spit out hot water. He turns the knob as far as it’ll go, and the pipes groan and shudder before the shower head spills out the water, hissing and steaming.

 

The water is scorching, but he doesn’t think twice about stepping in, letting the droplets pelt his back unforgivingly. His skin turns red and raw, but he stays under the spray and lets it melt the skin of his back.

 

He stands. He doesn’t know how long, but long enough to realize that his skin is numb. Or maybe he’s just becoming accustomed to the temperature. He doesn’t really care. 

 

Through the sound of the beating water, he can’t hear anything outside of the bathroom, which is one of the reasons he jumps when the door flies open with a loud thump against the wall. His fingernails dig into his palm, leaving welled crescent shapes. 

 

He scrabbles for the curtain, flinging it open to see Bucky standing in the center of the bathroom. He twitches at the sound of the curtain’s rings scraping against the pole, his bare toes curling into the yellowed tiles. His eyes are wide and dark, the hand held at his stomach is shaking.

 

“Buck–”

 

At the sound of his voice, Bucky breaks. He staggers forward, into the scalding spray, and collapses to his knees, not caring about his clothes which are now soaked through.

 

Steve makes a shocked sound, but follows Bucky to the shower floor. 

 

Bucky leans forward into Steve’s chest, clenching his hand into a fist on top of Steve’s naked thigh. Steve reaches up and to place a hand on the back of Bucky’s neck, the other one covering Bucky’s fist. 

 

A horrible sound wrenches out of Bucky’s throat, and Steve flinches. Bucky hides his face in Steve’s collar bone, shaking with vigor despite the searing shower spray.

 

“Bucky, Bucky,” Steve mutters, coasting his hand up and down Bucky’s spine, his water-clogged shirt catching on the way. “What happened?”

 

Bucky doesn’t respond. Steve’s not even sure he heard him.

 

He lets Bucky be, for the time being, and resides himself to sitting with him under the insistent spray of water. Bucky’s quiet for the most part, as Steve rubs his back and holds his hand which has finally begun to loosen up.

 

Steve only starts to move when the water slowly changes from burning hot, to lukewarm, and then ice cold. He fears Bucky is now shivering for an entirely different reason. He tries to keep a clear mind through the blinding cold as he fumbles around for the temperature knob.

 

Once the water’s off, Steve suddenly feels vulnerable and uncomfortable. His skin is tacky against Bucky’s cold clothes, and his ass had gone numb against the shower floor awhile ago.

 

“Can we move?” he whispers, chin resting atop Bucky’s head.

 

He feels Bucky nod, so he goes about carefully extracting himself from Bucky’s limbs to stand up. As soon as he’s to his shaky feet, he grabs Bucky’s hand and pulls him up too. 

 

“Do you wanna take those off?” he asks, tugging at the giving fabric stretched across Bucky’s skin. 

 

He offers Steve a jerky nod and begins to mechanically pull his boxers off, followed by his shirt. They fall to the floor with identical wet slaps, and Steve starts to gently wipe him down with a towel. Once he's no longer dripping, he retakes Bucky’s hand to gently guide him back to bed.

 

“Come on,” he mumbles as they both crawl under the blankets. He turns onto his side, and Bucky immediately molds himself to Steve’s body, still shaking slightly. His head is curled into Steve’s chest, legs tangled together. “Wanna talk?”

 

“I killed you,” is all that comes out.

 

Steve thinks he handles it pretty well. “Oh. It was just a dream. I’m right here.” He strokes his hand along Bucky’s side, settling on his waist. 

 

“Do you wanna talk?” Bucky brings up, seeming to come back to himself a bit.

 

“Huh? Why?” Steve looks at Bucky through the dark, shadows playing along his figure from the light of the bathroom.

 

“The water was really hot. You don’t seem okay,” Bucky explains, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world.

 

“I didn’t sleep too well either,” he admits. “But I’m good now.”

 

Bucky nods, taking his answer. Steve feels his body relax, muscles slackening from their locked position. Steve kisses the top of his head.

 

They rest for a few minutes, breathing in time with each other but otherwise keeping silent. Steve’s almost drifted off when Bucky talks again.

 

He says, “We’re naked.”

 

Steve is, to say the least, shocked. “Um, yeah. We are,” he responds carefully. Not intelligently, but carefully.

 

Then Bucky’s moving, crawling on top of Steve while skillfully arranging the blankets so the both of them are still covered. The cold air doesn’t seem too appealing at the moment, with Bucky and his skin still warming back up from their shower-turned-icy. 

 

Bucky’s thighs straddle his stomach, and he leans down to plant a warm, wet kiss on Steve’s lips.

 

“Feelin’ better?” Steve chuckles into Bucky’s mouth.

 

“You always seem to help,” he replies, occupying himself with the arduous task of sucking on Steve’s bottom lip. Steve lets out a breathy huff of air, trying to nip back. Bucky hums contentedly, and starts to trail sloppy, open-mouthed kisses along Steve’s cheek and jaw. He starts a journey downward, and,  _ no.  _ This isn’t what Steve wants.

 

Not exactly, anyway. 

 

He puts a hand on Bucky’s flesh shoulder and pushes lightly, and Bucky immediately stops. He looks up with wide, scared eyes.

 

“Wait, no,” Steve breathes out, before colliding their lips together again. He uses one hand to reach behind Bucky, sliding a hand down his spine to his ass, and uses his other hand to hitch under Bucky’s knee. 

 

When he flips them, Bucky gasps into his mouth, but quickly goes along with it. He moans when Steve’s tongue finds his; hot and wet and slick. Bucky presses against Steve with his full body when he arches, and Steve can feel both their cocks slide against each other. A choked moan rips from his throat, and Bucky pants beneath him. 

 

He finds the pulse point on Steve’s collar bone and starts suckling at the thin skin there. Steve hums, and he finds his hips jerking in small, aborted movements without his say so. Every so often, when Bucky moves into the right place, their cocks will touch and rub together, making both him and Bucky groan. After only a few moments, he's hard and straining, and it feels like Bucky's not much better off.

 

“How do you wanna do this?” Steve whispers as he kisses his way along Bucky’s stubbled cheek. Bucky opens his mouth, about to answer, when Steve reaches his earlobe and begins to nibble. Bucky makes an unintelligible, pleased sound before finding his voice.

 

“Whatever you’re comfortable with,” he responds breathily.

 

Steve groans at that, hips still moving against Bucky’s. “I’ve never done this,” he admits suddenly. “Not with a man.”

 

Bucky slides his hand from its position on Steve’s ass up to his back. “Me either.” He grins cockily. “I guess we’ll figure it out together.”

 

Steve watches him, his flickering eyes hopeful and blue like the ocean sky after a storm. He cups Bucky’s face and rubs his thumb back and forth across the rough skin. “I love you,” he murmurs.

 

And maybe he should regret saying something so rash so soon, but he doesn’t. He realizes, then, staring at Bucky’s flushed, beautiful face that it’s been longer than he’d thought. He’s loved Bucky ever since they were children and the little boy with brown hair and playful eyes pulled him out of silly scraps and cleaned his cuts and bruises and still stayed by his side through the sickness and his mother’s death and everything else. He just couldn’t put it together until now.

 

Bucky stares at him for a few moments, eyes just as wide. “I love you too, Steve,” he whispers, like he can’t believe it. He laughs and pulls himself up by Steve’s shoulder to kiss him, uncoordinated and wet with tears in his eyes. “I love you I love you I love you,” he mutters, over and over again.

 

Steve manages to push Bucky back into the pillow using only his mouth. Bucky’s loose and compliant, willing to do whatever Steve is. 

 

Bucky sighs when Steve starts kissing down his collar bone, moving onto his chest. He takes a pink nipple into his mouth and laves at it until he can feel it peak under his tongue. Bucky’s breath hitches along with his hips, so Steve stays for a few moments, relishing in the quiet sounds Bucky makes.

 

He eventually drags his mouth lower, dipping his tongue into all the waves and crevices of Bucky’s abs and navel. He traces his adonis belt and stops right above the thick patch of tight, black curls. Bucky’s breathing is heavy and labored, and Steve looks up at him for confirmation.

 

The blankets are no longer on top of them, but behind Steve and pooling at the foot of the bed. He’s no longer cold, not with their combined body heat. Bucky doesn’t seem to be doing too bad either.

 

Bucky’s screwed eyes open when Steve stops. He looks down with watery eyes and red cheeks, hair splayed across the pillow. “Please, Steve,” he begs, hips jutting upward. “Come on.”

 

Steve takes that as a yes, and places a sweet, puckered kiss at the base of Bucky’s cock. He licks and kisses his way upwards along thick veins until he gets to the head, dark red and shining perfectly with precome. Bucky groans urgently again, so Steve takes the head into his mouth. It’s earthy and salty with precome and sweat, and he feels it twitch on his lips as Bucky lets out a great, relieved sigh.

 

Steve’s maybe never done this before, but he sure knows what he’s supposed to do next. He takes more into his mouth, slowly, and manages to get pretty far before sliding back up. He bobs his head again, going even further until his nose touches rough hair. He thinks he’s doing pretty well, but Bucky jerks his hips involuntarily and then Steve’s gagging, coming back up for air.

 

“Sorry, sorry,” Bucky mutters, leaning up on his elbow and reaching down for Steve’s face. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. You don’t have to–” he cuts off, nodding downwards. 

 

Steve shakes his head. “Sorry, I just–I’ve never done this.”

 

Bucky laughs, laying back down. 

 

“I can keep going,” Steve tells him.

 

“If you insist.”

 

Steve goes for the head again, giving little, kitten licks until he gets the courage to try the whole thing once more. As soon as he does, it feels easier than before, and he knows now to go faster so when Bucky jerks, it won’t end abruptly with Steve choking and Bucky apologizing.

 

He bobs his head and gets into a rhythm. He likes the way Bucky winds his hand into his hair and grips tight for something to hold onto, and the way his thick, gorgeous cock drools a constant stream of precome onto his tongue. He likes the slickness of his spit mixing with it as it runs down his chin, and the perfect sounds spilling from Bucky’s bitten, red lips.

 

They manage to go for a few minutes, and Steve feels an ever-present ache in his jaw by the time Bucky’s moving his hand from his hair to his shoulder, gripping the muscle there and tapping urgently with his index finger.

 

Steve pulls off with a wet, pornographic-sounding pop. “Yeah?” he chokes out, voice throaty and deep.

 

Bucky shakes his head where it’s lying back, eyes still clenched shut as he tries to get his breathing under control. “Don’t want–don’t want to stop yet.”

 

“What else do you have in mind?” Steve questions, lightly kissing his pelvic bone.

 

Bucky breathes out, charging himself up for what he’s about to say. “Want you to fuck me,” he utters, sounding raw and husky.

 

Steve groans and can’t help when his hips thrust forward, cock rubbing on the bed sheets. “We need–” He tries to think, clear his mind, but Bucky’s words play over in his head and he feels himself grow impossibly harder. “Um, lube?”

 

“Red bag,” Bucky says, and when Steve scrambles off the bed to go rummage through it, he whimpers and grasps the bed sheets in a tight fist.

 

Steve makes quick work of finding the squeeze tube of lubricant they use for the guns and ignores the painful way his erection hangs in the open air and bounces with his movements as he kneels down. He climbs back onto the bed, his turn to straddle Bucky’s legs. He tosses the lubricant by Bucky’s head and leans down to kiss him, dirty and open-mouthed. 

 

He reaches out blindly for the lube and forces himself to pull away to coat his fingers in it. It’s cold and slippery so he rubs it between his fingers to warm it up before heading in between Bucky’s legs. Bucky’s legs jerk at the first initial touch, but he relaxes as Steve circles his hole with a single finger. 

 

He goes back to sucking on Bucky’s lip as he works, effectively distracting him.

 

Bucky gasps into his mouth as he pushes in. It’s tight and Steve can’t possibly fathom how this would feel good at the initial start, but he continues by the encouraging sounds tumbling from Bucky’s mouth. 

 

When he adds a second finger, he starts exploring, going deeper and experimenting with crooked fingers. He turns his wrist and crooks upwards, searching for the one thing he knows will feel good. He knows he’s found it when Bucky arches and sucks in a loud breath, moaning as he lets it out.

 

“That’s it, Stevie. Right there,” he breathes into their kiss, settling back down when Steve starts to move again. 

 

He lowers himself down to Bucky’s neck to suck a few bright red spots into the skin there, starting to work a third finger in. Bucky squirms a bit, but doesn’t tell him to stop.

 

“You ready?” he checks, bending his fingers into Bucky’s prostate.

 

Bucky moans helplessly and nods, spreading his legs wider and tucking his knees in closer. 

 

Steve nods too, muttering to himself, “Okay, okay,” as he squirts more lube onto his hand to lather up his aching, purple cock. He moans at the contact, and tries not to get carried away. He lines himself with Bucky, and stares straight into his eyes as he lowers himself in. His eyes flutter when he presses the head of his cock against his rim, and when he just barely breaches Bucky, he has to stop himself already. Bucky moans and his muscles contract softly against Steve, his moving hips urging him to go deeper. 

 

Bucky’s tight around his swollen cock, and it feels like heaven when he finally presses flush to him, the base of him nestled right against Bucky’s ass.

 

“You feel so good, doll. So good,” Bucky tells him dazedly, toes curling by Steve’s legs. 

 

Steve leans down to push his lips to Bucky’s, and the change in positions has them both moaning outright. His hips jerk in tight, aborted movements, and Bucky nods at him. 

 

“Go, on. I’m okay,” Bucky says.

 

Steve starts slow at first, dragging it out to make Bucky feel good. He’s had 70 years of torture and deserves to feel good this one special time.

 

But Bucky grows impatient after only a few thrusts of this, moving his own hips. “Faster,” he pants into Steve’s hair, Steve’s own face resting in the crook of Bucky’s neck.

 

So Steve goes faster. He slams into Bucky with short, quick thrusts that punch the breath out of the both of them. 

 

The sound of skin on skin is obscene and dirty, and it gives Steve just the right kind of motivation. Everything is slick and hot and sweaty, Bucky’s body jerking in time with Steve’s pounding. He shifts slightly, moving up and away from Bucky’s face and trying to aim for just the right spot.

 

“Ah!” Bucky clenches when Steve’s cock finds his prostate, his hand finding some type of traction on the meaty muscles of Steve’s back. His fingertips dig into the skin by his spine, trying to hold himself in place.

 

Steve moans as Bucky tightens around him, and he can feel himself getting closer. He reaches down to wrap a hand around Bucky’s cock. It twitches in his hand, and he tugs on it rhythmically with his thrusts. Bucky keens into it, arching his pelvis into his hand and down onto his cock.

 

“Steve,” he moans, long and drawn-out. “Steve, I’m gonna–”

 

Steve blows a gust of breath out through his nose and moves just that much faster. “Bucky,” he says. “Bucky, Bucky, Bucky, Bucky,” until he’s coming right into him, cresting over the edge as his vision blurs out. He can feel himself pulsing inside Bucky’s hole when Bucky comes with a shout of Steve’s name spilling from his mouth.

 

He watches, entranced, as thick white ropes streak across his stomach and ribs, his eyes clenched shut and mouth dropped open in pleasure. 

 

When it’s all over, he unscrews his eyes and licks his lips, watching Steve with hooded eyes. They both wince as Steve pulls out, and he drops himself next to Bucky’s loose, prone form. 

 

“That was–” Steve manages before Bucky takes over.

 

“Amazing. You’re so amazing.” He pulls Steve closer by his cheek to plant silly little kisses all over his face. He smears drying come all across Steve’s belly, but Steve can’t find it in himself to care all that much.

 

“You too,” he tells him. “But let’s clean up?”

 

Bucky chuckles and buries his face into Steve’s collar. “Not yet.”

 

“Not yet,” Steve agrees quietly, pulling Bucky in closer.


	12. Chapter 12

Steve wakes up feeling warm and fuzzy. He nuzzles into Bucky’s temple, his hair tickling his nose. When he cracks his eyes open, he’s greeted with the sight of Bucky, curled up into Steve and sleeping. His face is blank and perfect, eyelashes fanning out on his cheeks and his pink mouth open.

 

He can’t resist the need to kiss him, so he places his lips right under Bucky’s eye, light and feathery. He stirs at that, blinking his eyes open. He brightens when he looks at Steve, mouth pulling up at the corners. 

 

“Hey, Stevie,” he mumbles.

 

“Buck.” He kisses Bucky’s temple one last time before pulling back, which he instantly regrets.

 

Dried come pulls at his stomach when he separates from Bucky, peeling off the fine, wispy hairs there.

 

“Ow,” Bucky mutters, voicing his concern as well.  

 

“Maybe if we’d cleaned up after we wouldn’t be having this problem,” Steve tells him, sitting up to fruitlessly wipe at the flaking substance on his abdomen.

 

Bucky shoves at him. “Oh, shut up,” he says with mirth, slipping out of bed to make his way towards the bathroom. Steve hears the sound of water running before Bucky’s back with a wet washcloth. He’s wiping at his own stomach as he walks. He crawls over to Steve and starts scraping at the mess on his belly, situating himself over his legs.

 

It flakes off quickly, if not a bit painfully, but once he’s deemed it clean enough he leans forward to capture Bucky’s lips again. Bucky goes along willingly, melding his own lips with Steve’s. 

 

Bucky hums, placing hand on Steve’s bare chest to pull away. “We can’t. Not right now.”

 

“I know,” Steve admits, running a hand up and down Bucky’s thigh. “But this mission’s almost over, and then we can go back to T’Challa’s mansion and do whatever we want whenever.” He smiles up at Bucky. 

 

“I like that plan,” Bucky agrees, stealing one last brief kiss.

 

* * *

The password for the dinner party invites is idiotically the name of the new Winter Soldier project.  _ Zimneye Solntsestoyaniye  _ translates to Winter Solstice, which is good enough for Steve.

 

Bucky and Sharon work together to create believable invites through what Bucky’s scrapped up through the bugs in Koskov’s office.

 

So they’ve each got their own invites at the end of the day, and from what Steve’s gathered through Bucky’s chicken scratch notes, they seem as legit as they can get.

 

“It’s formal,” Bucky reminds them, sometime around 4:30 PM and Steve curses. 

 

None of them have any dress clothes, and barely any time to scrap something together.

 

“There’s gotta be some kind of rental place around here,” Sharon insists. She pulls out her laptop and starts typing, chewing her bottom lip. “There’s something a few neighborhoods over.”

 

“I’ll go with you,” Sam offers.

 

“Neither of you know any Russian,” Bucky says, so Wanda volunteers to go with instead.

 

“You guys sure you know what you’re doing?” Steve checks.

 

“Believe it or not, Steve,” Sharon says, “renting tuxes and dresses isn’t that hard of a job.”

 

He feels himself blush, heat rushing to his cheeks. “That’s not what I meant–I just, I mean...to be careful, and–”

 

Wanda laughs, patting his arm thoughtfully. “Thanks, Steve. But we will be okay.” She turns to Sharon. “Right?”

 

Sharon nods. “Of course. And, Steve, we’ll be careful.”

 

“That’s–that’s good,” he says jerkily. Over at the desk, Bucky chuckles, shaking his head. Steve ducks his own. 

 

“Come on, Wanda. I need some things from my room.” Sharon ushers her out, yelling behind her, “We’ll be back in an hour,” as they go.

 

Sam turns to Steve, who’s sitting on the bed. “You two had sex,” he says bluntly.

 

Steve chokes on nothing, heat rushing everywhere in his body it can get to. Sam waits patiently for him to catch his breath, while Bucky stands up from his seat. 

 

“Uh–I–we–” 

 

“Yeah? Why do you care?” Bucky challenges, squinting at Sam.

 

“First, because I can hear you two going at it like it’s your last time instead of your first, and second, it’s a big stepping stone for the both of you.”

 

“A stepping stone?” Steve chokes out, clearing his throat.

 

Sam shrugs. “I’m a VA counselor. I know what war does to a person, let alone what you guys have been through. It’s tough to be intimate after so long.”

 

“Thanks, Dr. Phil,” Bucky says dryly. “But I’d like to keep my and Steve’s bedroom life private.”

 

Steve manages, “I second that.” His whole face is burning so hot it feels like it’ll melt off.

 

“Sorry guys. But I also wanted to let you know the hotel walls are pretty thin.”

 

Steve stares into his lap, unable to make eye contact.

 

“And I know you used to have that thing with Sharon,” he continues.

 

Bucky laughs. “He hasn’t told her about us yet.”

 

Sam’s eyebrows raise. “Oh? That’s smart.”

 

Steve covers his face with his hands, hiding the red he knows is bright and apparent. “I can’t–I don’t know  _ how  _ to tell someone–her. I…” he shakes his head, giving up on.

 

Sam helpfully adds, “Well she probably knows after last night,” shrugging his shoulders.

 

Steve glares at him. 

 

“Yeah,” Bucky says, “my little Stevie’s pretty loud in the sack.”

 

“Buck!” Steve squawks, as Sam covers his ears and screws his eyes shut.

 

“I’m aware,” he mutters, staring darkly at Bucky.

 

* * *

Sharon and Wanda come back around 6:00 with three black suits and two dark evening gowns. 

 

“Hurry the fuck up and put these on,” Sharon tells them as soon as she’s through the door. Wanda is right behind her, looking a bit harried and worse for wear. 

 

“It was a little crazy out there,” she explains when she notices Steve’s concerned look. “I’m good.” She puts two bagged suits in his hands. “For you and James.”

 

Steve thanks her quietly and grabs Bucky to go change in their room. 

 

The first thing Steve asks is, “How do you wanna do your sleeve?” He really doesn’t need anyone recognizing the Winter Soldier at the dinner party.

 

“Oh, actually, I have a–thing,” he starts at the end of his sentence, flapping an arm towards the bags on the floor. 

 

“A thing?” Steve clarifies, confusion etching onto his face and furrowing his eyebrows.

 

“Uh, yeah. T’Challa gave it to me and I brought it just in case–”

 

“What is it?”

 

Bucky quietly replies, “An arm.” And at Steve’s even more puzzled expression, “A prosthetic.”

 

“T’Challa gave you a prosthetic? When?”

 

Bucky rolls his eyes, shoving at Steve. “You ask too many questions. Just go grab it for me.”

 

Steve huffs, but does as he’s told. He finds the strange, flesh-colored plastic arm at the bottom of the bag. It’s bulky and heavy with two straps, but it looks as close to a real arm as it could get.

 

“You need help strapping this on?”

 

But Bucky’s already shucking his shirt off. He nods, though, shaking his hair out at the same time.

 

Steve stands and makes Bucky sit on the bed before crouching down in between his legs.

 

“You have to put this strap on first,” Bucky explains, unclipping the strap that’ll wind around his rib cage. 

 

Steve struggles with it for a few minutes while Bucky waits patiently, if not amused. He eventually gets to the other strap, and plays with the fit of that while Bucky unhelpfully shifts and laughs at him. 

 

Steve calls him out for it. “You’re not helping, Buck.”

 

Bucky smirks and kisses his forehead. “Sorry, doll. You’re just too damn good at this.”

 

Steve glares and fiddles with the setting of the prosthetic. He’s careful of the puckered red scars spider-webbing out from the metal, knowing how sensitive it probably is. He tightens one last buckle before declaring it good. “You’re all set.”

 

“‘Kay. I’m gonna change in the bathroom. I’ll be out in a minute.”

 

“Sure.” 

 

The suits fit for the better part, not that he has room to complain. Bucky’s in the bathroom as he’s buttoning up his last cuff link when he hears a muffled curse from the room over.

 

He peeks his head into the bathroom to find Bucky struggling with the suit’s jacket, frowning into the mirror with half of it hanging off his shoulder. “Need help?” he offers quietly.

 

Bucky looks into his eyes using the mirror, then glances down and nods. Steve gladly steps forward to help grab the other half of the jacket and sling it over his metal stump and into the clunky fake arm. “Step this way?” Steve asks, gently maneuvering Bucky so he can step in front of him to button it close. He can feel Bucky’s gaze on him as he stares down at the row of black buttons. 

 

When he looks up, Bucky licks his lips. “My tie?” he murmurs.

 

“Oh, right,” Steve mumbles, grabbing the black tie that had been resting on the sink counter. He wraps it around Bucky’s neck and intently focuses on tying it so it looks decent enough for a hundred Hydra officiates. Once he’s done, he looks at Bucky and leans in for a short, sweet kiss. “I love you.”

 

Bucky smiles against his lips. “Love you too, sweetheart.”

 

Under the jacket the strange bulk of the prosthetic is barely noticeable, and looks like any other normal arm to someone who isn’t looking.

 

Bucky is looking Steve up and down bashfully, ducking his head and messing with his hair. “You look real nice, Stevie,” he mumbles. 

 

Steve’s mouth quirks upwards, and he looks at Bucky’s own ensemble. His black and white suit makes him look formal and dashing, and it’s weird after so long to see him with something filling up that left sleeve. “You do too, Buck. You’re a real looker.”

 

Bucky hums, pushing his nose into Steve’s cheek and nuzzling. “You’ll do my hair now, right?” he pleads, looking up at Steve through his eyelashes.

 

Steve laughs. “Sure. Give me a band.”

 

Bucky slides one off his wrist and offers it to Steve, who gently grabs Bucky’s shoulders to turn him around. He gathers silky brown strands and pulls it back, running his fingers through it to make it look somewhat presentable. When he’s done, Bucky turns back to bury his face in Steve’s chest again.

 

“You ready to meet up with everyone?” he says, voice muffled.

 

“Hm? Sure.”

 

Wanda, Sharon, and Sam are waiting for them in Sam’s room, dressed to the nines. Wanda’s got on a deep magenta evening gown with a lacy top and off-the-shoulder straps, while Sharon’s got on a skin-tight champagne dress that shimmers when she turns the right way. Sam looks sharp as always in another black and white tux, sporting a black bow tie. 

 

“Well, don’t we all just look ready to go kill some Hydra agents,” Sam says brightly, tucking a gun into his waistband.

 

Steve motions towards it. “You sure they aren’t gonna check you for that?”

 

Bucky scoffs beside him. “It’s a Hydra banquet. Everyone’s got at least one firearm on ‘em.” He taps something at his side, which Steve now notices as one of their glocks.

 

“I’ve got a thigh holster on,” Sharon pipes up, lifting her dress a couple inches off the ground. “It’s handy.” She shrugs.

 

Steve admires her.

 

“I’ve got this,” Wanda adds, raising a hand out in front of her and letting wispy, red tendrils float through the air and towards Sam. 

 

He jolts, taking a step back, but the red swirls only wrap around his top jacket button, gently popping it open. The red wisp dissolves into the air as Wanda laughs.

 

Sam’s mouth flattens as he aggressively buttons it back up. “Congrats,” he says dryly. “You can undress Hydra one zipper at a time.”

 

“Come on, Sammy,” Bucky teases. “Don’t be a spoil sport. You look all cute half dressed and debauched like that.”

 

“It was one button, Barnes. Don’t test me.” 

 

Wanda places a delicate hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Should I call a cab?”

 

They all cram into an old, smelly taxi, with an equally old and smelly cabbie. The minute Steve sits next to him he gets a noseful of cigarette stench.

 

Bucky watches through the rear view mirror as Sam forces himself in next to Bucky. Sharon places herself on Sam’s lap without a word, and Wanda does the same with Bucky.

 

“This okay?” she whispers to him, situated sideways.

 

Bucky breaks into his easy, carefree smile. “If it’s all right for you,” he tells her. 

 

The driver doesn’t seem to mind their misuse of the back seat, and he keeps quiet when Bucky tells him in gruff Russian where to.

 

The streets are calm and nearly empty until they roll up to the theater hall. Black, inconspicuous cars are scattered all around, making it impossible to find a parking spot. The cabbie says something angry and terse, and when Bucky talks back, the cab jerks to a stop in the middle of the road. 

 

“We have to get out,” Bucky explains, opening up the door and letting Wanda slide off his lap. 

 

Steve digs into his wallet to pull out what he estimates is around the correct amount of rubles and handing it to the cabbie. The second he steps out, the car squeals and nearly runs his foot over. He jumps back and glares at the receding taxi.

 

There’s a guard at the front entrance, dressed in black Kevlar with a menacing taser and some type of glock at his hip. He orders for the invites to be handed over, and Bucky steps up first, his face a blank mask as he idly watches the guard peruse the simple card stock.

 

“Идти,” he orders, holding his hand out for Sharon’s as Bucky breezes past him.

 

Steve lets out a small, undetectable sigh of relief as he watches Bucky get accepted, then Sharon, Sam, and Wanda. He casually hands his over next, carefully avoiding any skin contact. He’s very aware of how sweaty his hands must be.

 

The guard lets him in, facial expression impassive.

 

Inside, the theater hall is grand and cascaded with red undertones. The chandeliers above him glow a calming yellow, reflecting spotted light onto the red carpet. Round dining tables are set up on the far side, filled with pompous suits and apathetic faces.

 

“Шампанское, сэр?” a thready voice asks him, shoving a tray of champagne flutes under his nose. The man holding it can’t possibly be older than 25, more of a boy, really. He looks slightly worried, eyes crinkled in a negative manner.

 

Steve holds a hand up, signaling he doesn’t want one, and skirts around the kid to head for Bucky, who’s got his back turned, eyes down. He places his hand at the small of his back, hoping to offer some sort of anchor. Bucky’s eyes flick up to his, and he raises his head.

 

“I’m giving us away, aren’t I?” he asks softly.

 

“No,” Steve assures him. “Just wanted to make sure you were all right.”

 

“Oh. I’m fine,” Bucky says with a nod. “Just, a little dysphoric I guess. It’s nothing.”

 

Steve purses his lips, but lets Bucky deal by himself.

 

“Wanda and Sam are off chatting with a lower class agent over there,” he tells Steve, motioning with his head. “And Sharon is using her technique of luring men over to her. She calls it the Siren Method.”

 

Steve turns his head to see Sharon sitting alone at an empty dining table, legs crossed, champagne flute held precariously in between long fingers, already more than halfway gone. It’s clever, Steve thinks. Gives the impression that she’s loose and vulnerable.

 

“She’s smart. Knows how to handle herself,” Steve agrees. “And us?”

 

“We’ll find someone higher class that has connections and charm the pants of ‘em.” He grabs champagne off of a passing server and takes a chug. “Over here.”

 

Steve follows him blindly through the groups and throngs of old men in stuffy suits. Bucky looks like he has a mission in mind, so Steve lets him play it out.

 

Bucky stops him with a hand to the chest and gives him a look, silently telling him to stay put. He steps forward a few feet to a middle-aged man with graying black hair. Bucky politely taps his shoulder, and when he turns, Bucky puts on an innocent smile.

 

“You speak English, correct?” he checks, a Russian accent heavy on his tongue. 

 

The man looks confused but nods.

 

Bucky’s smile grows. “Please, I would enjoy to have conversation. My friend does not speak русский. Would you?”

 

The man nods. “Of course,” he complies, following Bucky over to Steve. “You’re from America?” he asks, accent much more controlled and understandable than Bucky’s fake one.

 

Steve flushes. “Yes. I work at one of the smaller bases in Nevada.” He holds out his hand. “I’m Joseph.”

 

The man’s hand is warm and firm, not trying to be intimidating or controlling like everyone else’s would. “Nice to meet you. I’m Eduard. You are?” He turns to Bucky expectantly.

 

“Semyon,” Bucky answers, shaking his hand. “Joseph and I work on same case long ago. We both like painting. Made good friends in Moscow.”

 

“What made you decide to come to Samara?” Eduard asks, taking a sip out of his wine glass.

 

Bucky fidgets with the knot of his tie. In a lowered voice, he responds, “The new Winter Soldier program. I am involved with the trial and error portion of it. I bring Joseph here to help. The chief of staff from Saint Petersburg say Joseph is very smart with number and data.”

 

Eduard nods. “So you’re both in with project Winter Solstice?”

 

“Yeah,” Steve says. “We were hoping to talk with Arkady Koskov tonight, but he appears to be a busy man.”

 

A few meters over, a mass of people chatter and laugh politely, someone in the middle the obvious center of attention. 

 

“Ah, yes,” Eduard agrees. “He’s a popular man in the Hydra world. He’s in charge of everything. All plans and projects have to go through him.”

 

“I have been working on something excellent for the soldiers’ trials. A serum, of sorts,” Bucky explains, eagerly peeking up over the heads surrounding Koskov.

 

“ _ You’re  _ the one that’s been working on that?” Eduard questions, surprise and awe lacing his voice. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. You’re very famous among us Tyumen and Astana workers.”

 

Bucky manages to look embarrassed at the compliment. “Joseph is the brain,” he adds, briefly touching Steve’s arm. “I would not have been able to do anything without him there.”

 

“You know, I’m sure Arkady would love to talk to you guys,” he says thoughtfully. “Why don’t I go grab him.”

 

Steve forces a smile. “That would be fantastic, thank you.”

 

Eduard gives him a smile before darting off into the crowd. Steve’s plastic smile drops and he turns towards Bucky with a sigh.    
  


“You good?” he checks.

 

Bucky shrugs, looking oddly pale in the shimmering golden lights of the hall. “I hate talking to these people like friends. They’re all sick, sadistic pieces of filth.”

 

“I know, but it’s just for tonight. Hold on a little longer?”

 

Bucky nods, taking another large swig of champagne. Steve reaches up to press a finger into his ear comm. “Status update?”

 

Sam’s voice comes out hushed. “Wanda’s talking to some Russian senator, and Sharon seems to be talking up another officiate. I’m speculating at the open bar.”

 

“There’s an open bar?” Bucky asks Steve, looking down into his flute.

 

Steve chooses to ignore him. “Everything good, then?”

 

“For now. We’ll see how things escalate. How are you and Barnes?”

 

Steve casts a glance to the group of people surrounding Koskov. “We’re about to get some serious information off Koskov. We can start with the gunfire when we’ve got everything we need.”

 

A loud Russian voice approaching alerts him that Eduard’s coming back with Koskov, so he says a quick goodbye to Sam and starts chatting lowly with Bucky.

 

“Mr. Koskov,” Eduard starts, dragging the man into their small circle of conversation, “this is Semyon and Joseph, they work in...St. Petersburg, you said?”

 

“Да,” Bucky responds, holding his hand out for Koskov.

 

“You will have to forgive me,” Koskov says in a gravely voice. “My English is not so good.”

 

Bucky laughs. “Mine either, but Joseph is still too tired to learn Russian tongue.” He glances over to him, smiling.

 

“Sorry,” Steve apologizes lightly. “I never thought I’d be working in as big of a base like the ones here in Russia. I’ve still got some learning to do.”

 

“It is all right,” Koskov dismisses. “Eduard tells me you are one of the agents working on the enhancement serum for the trial assets?”

 

“Да,” Bucky nods. “Joseph helps me with numbers, and I do everything else. I feel we are getting close to a finishing product.”

 

“I am looking forward to viewing what you both come up with.”

 

Next to him, Bucky suddenly tenses, eyes caught on something across the room. Steve follows his gaze behind Eduard and Koskov to a strange looking man with light gray hair and furrowed, wild eyebrows. He realizes the man and Bucky are staring each other down. As soon as the man moves in the crowd, towards them, that the two must recognize each other.

 

His breathing catches, and he tries to subtly nudge Bucky.

 

But Bucky’s already seen the man’s intentions. 

 

Arkady’s voice filters back into his ears, and as politely as possible, Bucky excuses himself quickly to the men’s room.

 

Eduard and Arkady ignore the strange behavior and continue chatting with Steve about things he doesn’t understand.

 

“So, Arkady,” Steve begins, glancing around for any sign of Bucky, “tell me more about the Winter Solstice project. I only know what Semyon’s told me, and that’s nothing more than what the formula for the serum is.” Steve laughs, completely robotic, but neither of the men detect anything suspicious.

 

“Oh, of course. I have been working on this for some time now. The idea came up a few months after Zola’s asset escaped.”

 

Steve’s jaw clenches, tries not to let it show.

 

“Why’d you go with an American asset?” he questions, trying to go for idle conversation.

 

“One of my agents stationed in New York offered up the Mallor girl. Went to the arts school, shy but very smart. Perfect for a compliant asset.”

 

“The experimentation trials are going well then?”

 

“Excellent,” Eduard pipes up. “They’re almost finished with. Both assets still alive. We’ll be ready for actual new assets soon.”

 

Steve’s lips feel like lead as he smiles, hates himself for playing along with these bastards. “Sounds like it’s moving along pretty–”

 

A loud, booming gunshot echoes throughout the theater hall and Steve ducks instinctively, along with every other Hydra agent in the place.

 

Steve gasps and covers his head with his hands. He crouches low, whipping his gaze around to try and spot Bucky. Hopefully he’s safe in the bathroom.

 

A throng of scared murmuring starts up, people starting to stand and look around in confusion.

 

There’s a loud, shrill scream from the other end of the room, making Steve flinch again. He watches as  people start to gather around something. There’s someone talking in harsh Russian, angry. 

 

A spike of fear stabs through Steve as the crowd around whatever’s going on grows larger. He slowly stands, heading for it.

 

He stumbles when something sharp pricks his shoulder with force and lodges itself deep in his skin. His breath stutters as he reaches around to pull it out. It hurts like a son of a bitch when he yanks it out without any grace.

 

It’s a strangely long bullet, tipped red. It’s got a crack in it, hollow. It’s a tranq dart.

 

The fear in his gut grows, along with a twist of anxiety.

 

He can already feel the dart’s poison working its way through his veins, ice cold and burning hot and the same time. He trips over his own feet, falling to the hardwood ground.

 

He feels strong hands on his shoulders, but he can’t see them. Sees black blotches in front of his hands and dark shapes everywhere else before passing out.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, guys! This was so fun to write so I hope you all enjoyed it<3

Steve’s muscles are sore when he wakes up. Underneath his back is something hard and cold, like metal. 

 

He cracks his crusty eyes open, blinking at the soft light above him. His world is rumbling around him, jostling him in not so comfortable ways. He hears himself groan, but doesn’t really feel it. His head lolls to the side, hitting the metal underneath him. The table.

 

“You awake?” Sam’s voice asks.

 

Steve smacks his dry lips together. “Where?” he mutters.

 

“In Tony’s quinjet. Over the Atlantic.”

 

He tries to sit up, but doesn’t get much farther than wriggling his elbows around.

 

“Hey, settle down,” Sharon’s voice comes next, out of his view. He strains his eyes to look. “You’re still shaking off the tranq juice.”

 

“Bucky?” he mumbles, close to incoherent.

 

“He’s on the med jet behind us, with Tony and Bruce and Wanda,” Sam explains, placing a hand over Steve’s forehead to check for temperature.

 

“Tony? Med…?”

 

Sam sighs, sliding his hand off his sweaty forehead. “Bucky was shot. It was pretty bad. Sharon and Wanda agreed it’d be better to go back to New York instead of Wakanda. They trust Tony more, and so do I.

 

“So I called Tony to come to Russia after I patched Bucky up. It was a temporary stitch job, and Bucky’s not in such great condition. It’s been about a day.”

 

Steve reels. “A  _ day  _ ? What–what happened?”

 

“They must’ve hit you with a pretty strong dart. You’ve been out cold the whole time.” Sharon sits next to him on a bench, running a hand through her messy hair. “Someone recognized Bucky and shot him. I think he got you next, but he escaped after that.”

 

“Why is Bucky on the other jet if we got shot with the same thing?” Steve’s fingers twitch at his sides, grasping the hem of his white button down.

 

“Uh,” Sam breathes, scratching at his neck. “He was hit in the spine. The bullet went pretty deep.”

 

Steve feels like the table has dropped underneath him. “Is he okay?”

 

“He’s still alive,” Sam tells him. “Tony doesn’t know how long he’ll last without proper medical equipment.”

 

“Oh.” Steve can’t breathe. His stomach is curling up inside of him and drying up. His head is pounding and his hands are numb. “I think I’m gonna–” He doesn’t get to finish his sentence, can’t with the bile rising hot and stinging in his throat.

 

Luckily Sam understands and swiftly gets up to grab a bag from somewhere by the pilot seat and shoves it under his nose.

 

Steve gets enough leverage to lean over to grab it from Sam’s hand and vomit into it. Sharon politely looks away and Sam rubs his back in soothing circular motions.

 

“Ugh,” he says when he’s done, taking the towel Sam offers him with shaky hands. “Sorry, I–I don’t feel good.”

 

Sam laughs hollowly. “That’s understandable.”

 

“We’ll be in New York in a couple hours,” Sharon says, chancing a look over. “Tony’ll have to do surgery on Bucky to get the bullet out.”

 

Steve nods, tries not to think too hard about it, and shuts his eyes, breathing in deep.

 

He doesn’t sleep.

 

He only reopens his eyes when he feels the quinjet land with a hard thump. The tranquilizer’s completely worn off by now, so he can actually feel his limbs instead of leaden weights when he stands up.

 

The hangar is empty when he steps off, and Sam quietly tells him they’ll be here in a few minutes, that Bucky’s fine and still alive.

 

He waits, 15 long, treacherous, anxious minutes in the facility’s main lobby before he hears the telltale rumble of a jet landing. He shoots up off the leather couch and ignores the way his head spins. He rushes out to the hangar and watches with clenched fists as Wanda steps out, face somber.

 

Tony and Bruce roll a cot down the ramp, Bucky limp and bare on top of it. He’s only got his boxers on, and his torso is wrapped in thick white bandages.

 

Steve rushes towards him, falling to his knees so he’s level with Bucky. He barely registers the shock of pain when his knees hit the concrete floor with a dull thud. “Why is he on his back?” is the first thing that he chokes out, his throat like a tight vice.

 

“He’s on some strong pain meds right now,” he hears Tony say. “I didn’t want him to suffocate. Surprising, I know.”

 

He runs shaky hands over and through Bucky’s dark hair, and his eyes crack open. They’re glassy and out of focus, but they’re open. “Buck, Bucky,” he mutters, moving his hand down to grab his flapping hand.

 

Bucky’s mouth quirks into a smile. “What’s got you all wrinkled, Rogers? Worry lines aren’t a good look on you,” he croaks out, voice as dry as his pink lips.

 

Steve chokes on a sob and leans his forehead down on Bucky’s chest. His tears run down his face and drop into the gauze.

 

“Stevie?” Bucky says quietly, scared.

 

“You’re gonna be okay, Buck,” he replies, looking back up into stormy eyes. “Tony’s just gotta get the bullet out of you.”

 

“Oh,” Bucky says absentmindedly, like he’s not quite absorbing Steve’s words.

 

And it’s all Steve’s fault. He had dragged Bucky to Wakanda and forced him to go on this fucking mission and made him face people who’d  _ tortured  _ him. Bucky could  _ die  _ and there’s a bullet in his  _ spine.  _ Steve can’t breathe. Can’t get enough air in his lungs. He keeps letting Bucky down. He keeps letting Bucky die.

 

“Uh, speaking of,” Tony starts. “We should probably start on that.” 

 

Steve nods, gets his legs under him. He bends down one last time and captures Bucky’s lips in a promising kiss. 

 

Behind him, he hears Bruce mutter a surprising, “Oh,” and Tony chuckle.

 

“Let’s get rolling lover boys,” he says.

 

Steve steps back, eyes feeling puffy and wet. “Stay safe,” he whispers, not even knowing if Bucky can hear him. But Bucky watches him with lidded eyes as Tony and Bruce wheel him away.

 

He sees Sharon in the doorway, watching the whole scene play out with her arms crossed. They lock eyes for a few seconds until Steve breaks and looks at the floor. He wipes at his face and lets Sam lead him into the building.

 

* * *

Steve’s slumped over in an uncomfortable plastic chair, leaning on Bucky’s hospital bed and sleeping on his crossed arms. He startles awake when he feels something snake through his hair.

 

Fingers. Bucky’s fingers.

 

“Buck?” he mumbles, raising his head. Bucky smiles down at him, moving his head to the side. Steve wrings his fingers into the baby blue bed sheets and returns the smile, reaching over to squeeze his thigh. “Feelin’ okay?”

 

Bucky sighs, closing his eyes again. “M’feelin’ pretty warm, actually,” he tells Steve, and it sounds slightly slurred. 

 

Steve sits up straight and grasps Bucky’s sweaty hand in both of his. “Warm?”

 

“Yeah,” he says, smacking his lips together. “Fuzzy.”

 

“Oh. Let me, uh–Friday? Call Bruce for me, please?” Steve licks his lips, looking upwards as if the AI rests in the air.

 

“Of course, Captain,” she replies coolly, mechanically. 

 

“Well, uh, Bruce got the bullet out, says you’re gonna be okay. We had a, um, nice, catching up chat while you were out.” He feels his cheeks pink, reminiscing on the awkward conversation both he and Bruce had endured with Tony. Almost like nothing had changed.

 

Bucky chuckles weakly. “Always the conversationalist.” He pauses, squeezing his eyes shut. Steve’s stomach flips with worry. 

 

“Bucky?” he checks, letting one hand untangle from Bucky’s to softly rest on his cheek, thumb brushing the sweaty skin there.

 

His head lolls into Steve’s touch and he hums. “Headache,” he says simply.

 

“Maybe Bruce has some more of those pain meds,” Steve suggests, running a hand through Bucky’s damp hair.

 

There’s a soft knock at the door before Bruce sticks his head in. “Can I come in?” he asks.

 

Steve retracts his hands into his lap and nods, but Bucky makes a kind of whining noise and uselessly wiggles his hand around. Steve frowns but retakes it, entwining their fingers on the bed covers.

 

Bruce takes a seat in the unoccupied plastic chair and smiles his small, shy smile. “How are you guys doing?”

 

“Bucky says he has a headache? And he’s pretty...sweaty,” Steve explains.

 

“Oh, well, he probably has a fever. His body’s fighting off the bacteria left from the bullet and the poison. It should break in a couple of days, but I can give you some medicine for now, if you’d like,” he offers.

 

“Yes, yeah, that’d be great,” Steve says. “Thank you.”

 

“I can just give you a bottle of those extra strength pain pills. They should work for him.”

 

Steve looks down at his and Bucky’s hands and smooths his thumb over Bucky’s fingernails. “Did, uh, Tony say anything about…”

 

Bruce smiles warmly. “He says it’s fine. You two can stay as long as you want.”

 

Steve sighs in relief and bows his head. “Thanks. It–it means a lot.”

 

“I’ll make sure to tell him that then,” Bruce responds. “Anything else I can help with?”

 

“I don’t think so, no.”

 

Bruce stands. “Make sure he doesn’t walk for a couple days. I’m not sure exactly how fast a super soldier heals, but he won’t be able to stand by himself while his temp’s above 102.”

 

“What?” Bucky pipes up, voice scratchy and faint.

 

“I’ll leave you to it. There’s a wheelchair here if you need it, and I can drop off the pills in whatever room Tony sets you up in.” Bruce nods to the folded up wheelchair leaning against the wall before slipping out the door.

 

“Wheelchair? I don’t…” he trails off, blinking up at the ceiling.

 

“Sure, Buck,” Steve says, patting his hand.

 

He lets Bucky have a few more minutes before pulling him out of bed and plopping him in the blue, plastic wheelchair.

 

Bucky loudly and outwardly complains about being pushed around when he’s perfectly capable of using his legs. Steve comfortingly pats his shoulder and tells him he’s right, but wheels him into the elevator all the same and up into the guest bedroom Tony’s given them.

 

Bruce drops off the pill bottle not too long after they’re settled, and Bucky gladly takes a few for the sharp pain in his back and his aching muscles and head. 

 

He lays Bucky down on the bed as gently as he can, covering his legs with the red comforter. 

 

Bucky laughs, out of nowhere, causing Steve to look at him from where he’s sitting at the foot of the bed. He’s got a goofy smile on his face, propped up by Tony’s extravagant, fluffy pillows.

 

Steve smiles at him, completely by accident. “What’s up?”

 

Bucky reaches his hand out for Steve’s, and Steve gladly takes it, rubbing the thin skin there. “Bucky?” he asks.

 

“You’re pretty,” he murmurs, staring into Steve’s eyes like they’re the only thing in the room.

 

Steve chuckles. “Those painkillers working for you?”

 

“Like a doll,” he continues. “All pretty and porcelain.” He laughs again, careless.

 

“You too, Buck,” Steve tells him.

 

“No. No, no, no,” Bucky mutters, suddenly serious. He closes his eyes and wrenches his hand out of Steve’s grip, throwing his arm over his face. “Stevie, no.”

 

Steve can’t help the smile that grows on his face. “You’re pretty out of it, huh?”

 

Bucky gives him a mournful glare, shifting slightly and kicking his leg out from where it rests under Steve’s hand.

 

“You gonna be okay, bud?”

 

Bucky pouts, petulant. Steve tries hard not to smile. “I will be after you kiss me,” Bucky tries to reason.

 

“Maybe we should try to get some rest first,” he offers in response, but Bucky makes a distressed noise.   
  


“ _ Kiss  _ first,” he argues. He starts shifting, getting his arm under him to raise himself up on his elbow. He visibly winces, so Steve moves and stands, places his hand on his chest to gently push him back down. He leans down for a chaste kiss, and Bucky smiles up and him, effectively satisfied. “Mm, Stevie. Lips so soft.” He hums distractedly.

 

“All right, Buck. Sleep now?” he asks hopefully, slowly bringing the bed sheets up to Bucky’s chest.

 

Bucky blinks. “Stay with me?”

 

Steve smiles. “Always.”

 

* * *

When Steve wakes up, he immediately senses Bucky’s discomfort.

 

He opens his eyes to see Bucky’s shifting body, face twisted in silent hurt. It doesn’t even look like he’s awake yet, just suffering quietly until his body is forced to wake him up.

 

He places a hand on Bucky’s bare shoulder and squeezes, hoping it’ll be enough to wake him. Bucky’s hand clenches on top of the covers and his eyes open. He groans and pales, struggling to sit up.

 

“What is it?” Steve asks, suddenly alert.

 

“I’m gonna puke,” he says.

 

Steve’s up like a shot and to the other side of the bed, grabbing Bucky under his arms and hauling him out of bed. He supports most of Bucky’s weight as he drags him into the connected bathroom. He lowers him in front of the toilet just before he vomits. 

 

He waits as Bucky convulses, rubbing a knuckle up and down his curved spine. Bucky dry heaves a few last times before it’s finally over, and he’s left leaning across the porcelain bowl, head bowed and chest heaving.

 

“Feel any better?” Steve ventures, reaching over to snag a towel from the sink counter to hand to Bucky.

 

“No,” he grouses, snatching the towel from Steve’s fingers. 

 

Steve leans over to flush the toilet for him before continuing to rub his back. Bucky slumps into him, spent and shaky. Steve gathers him into his lap as much as he can fit, worrying about the way Bucky’s bare skin is cold and sweaty all at once.

 

“How’s your back?” he asks, instead of fretting over his fever symptoms.

 

“Hurts. Like a rock’s wedged in there. Aches like everything else.” He groans, tensing slightly under Steve’s palm before shivering violently. “Ugh.” 

 

“Back to bed?” he suggests, already getting his feet under him and moving his hands from Bucky’s back.

 

“Yeah,” he croaks, trying to take most of his weight off of Steve as they stand. It doesn’t work too well, and Steve ends up nearly carrying him back to the bed. “I don’t need you babyin’ me, Steve,” he insists once he’s back under the covers. 

 

Steve’s a little taken aback. “I’m not, Buck. Just trying to help.”

 

“Sorry,” he says immediately, eyes downcast. “I just–I don’t feel well.”

 

“I know.” He sits down by Bucky’s legs. “We can lay low for a few days until you feel better, then we can–” He stops, unsure.

 

Bucky seems to pick up on it. “What’s our plan, Stevie? Where are we gonna go where Hydra can’t?”

 

Steve swallows, avoiding eye contact. “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

 

As if to save him from the awkward, eventually inevitable conversation, his phone buzzes from where he’d set it on the nightstand. He pinches his lips together and reaches for it, still not looking directly at Bucky, though he can feel his intense stare.

 

“Rogers,” he answers into the phone, sitting precariously at the foot of the bed.

 

“Captain Rogers, it’s T’Challa. I heard about what happened in Samara.” His voice is quiet and somber through the crackling line. “My sincerest apologies. I had no idea the dangers of sending you out to Russia. I hope James is doing okay.”

 

“Oh, he’s doing fine. He’s, uh, a bit upset about being bedridden, but he’ll be just fine,” he assures T’Challa, casting a quick glance at Bucky, who’s frowning slightly.

 

T’Challa lets out a small breath. “That is good to hear. I have a feeling you’ll want to talk about our little agreement on the Secret Avengers.”

 

Steve chuckles dryly. “You’d be right. I’m sorry, T’Challa. You’ll have to figure out something else. I think we’re done. For good.” He nods, as a final convincement to himself.

 

“I understand, Steve, but I’ll always be here if either of you need something. Give Barnes my apologies, but I’ll leave you to it.”

 

“Thank you.” He tosses his phone up by his pillow and finally looks at Bucky. “T’Challa says he’s sorry,” he tells him lamely.

 

Bucky nods quietly. “What else?”

 

“Our team is over. I’m not surprised, but’s for the better.” He pauses, searching Bucky’s eyes. “Where do you wanna go?” he finally asks, then corrects it. “What do you wanna do?”

 

Bucky shrugs, looking like he wants to say something. “Somewhere safe.” He closes his mouth tight, as if the words he actually wants to say will spill out otherwise.

 

“Of course. But where can we go that Hydra can’t?”

 

“We were safe in Wakanda,” Bucky says quietly, snapping his mouth closed afterwards, like he regrets saying it.

 

“You want to go back to Wakanda?” he clarifies. That might be the last place he would’ve guessed Bucky would want to go. Bucky nods, cataloging Steve’s reaction. Steve smiles, though, warmth flooding his expression. “I think I have an idea,” he tells him, laying a kiss to his cold, stubbly cheek.

 

* * *

They head back to Wakanda.

 

Steve makes sure to say goodbye and thank everyone at the tower, and maybe sheds a few tears when talking to Sam.

 

He brings Bucky to the cabin on the border once he’s better, and they fix it up together. He lets Bucky handle the furniture; they both know how deficient Steve can be in that specific area. Steve gets to repair the broken floor in the second bedroom and clean up the papers scattering every square foot of the place. He places them all in a beaten, wooden crate without looking at them and stashes it in the bedroom he knows will never get used.

 

Steve chops the old furniture up for fireplace fuel while Bucky builds new things from polished, dark wood he gets from the craftsman a few miles north in town. 

 

In just shy of two weeks, the cabin is something else entirely. Completely furnished—courtesy of Bucky—it feels like a real home, like they aren’t pretending anymore.

  
And maybe they aren’t.


End file.
